"Take off your suit," I demanded, watching her eyes flare, knowing she loved being bossed around even if she would never admit it.
Moving to the nightstand, I got a condom, put it on, watching as she made a show of undoing her straps, pulling the suit down to her waist, then slowly lowering down onto the bed, planting her feet, bridging upward
"I need help," she told me, giving me that ball-stabbingly hot sexy pout of hers.
My cock twitched as I moved back to the foot of the bed, fingers teasing the outside of her ankle before both hands grabbed both ankles, yanking, pulling them out from under her, then twisting, forcing her onto her stomach. My hands moved into her hips, pulling her ass up high toward me, then yanking the material down to expose her perfect ass.
My hand landed with a slap, harder than before, leaving a pink mark on her cheek, dragging a ragged whimper out of her as I slammed inside her without preamble, taking every inch.
"Fuck," she hissed, fingers fisting the sheets, ass angling out further, begging for more.
My hands went back to her hips, using them to slam her body back against me as I thrust forward. Hard. Merciless. Completely lacking any self-control, something Wasp ate up, her whimpers becoming moans that became hushed curses as I drove her up to the edge.
"Why did you agree to come with me to Bali?" I demanded, pulling nearly all the way out of her.
"No. Damnit. Don't stop," she growled, trying to wiggle against me. "Fenway..."
"Answer me," I demanded, landing another slap to her ass.
"Fuck. Fine. I thought it would be fun to play with you," she admitted, and everything about it rang true.
I slammed back inside her, deep, feeling her walls pulsate around me wildly, milking my orgasm out of me as well, sapping all my strength, making me crash forward over her on the bed, gasping for a deep breath.
"You're an asshole," Wasp declared when she got her breath back, throwing her body weight, tossing me off of her onto the mattress as she sat up, glaring down at me.
"I am," I agreed, putting an arm behind my neck, happy with my victory. And the methods by which I secured it.
"You know you just upped the stakes, right?" she asked, chin lifting, challenge making her eyes even brighter than usual.
"Oh, I am looking forward to the next battle.
"It is going to get ugly," she promised me.
"You know what? You're lucky you're so pretty," I told her, watching her brows furrow.
"Why is that?" she asked, a sliver of ice slipping into her voice.
"I—"
"Describe me," she demanded, cutting me off.
"What?"
"Say someone asked about me. How would you describe me?" she asked, body getting tense.
"Well, you're beautiful," I started, knowing the second it was out of my mouth that it was exactly the wrong thing to say, that I had somehow made a point she had in her head as she went up on her knees, leaning over me.
"What a lousy way to describe me," she snapped, poking me hard enough in the center of my chest to hurt. "I am brilliant. I am resourceful. I am enigmatic. I am fucking interesting. Don't you dare reduce me to just 'beautiful' again, Fenway," she hissed, hopping off the bed, grabbing her robe off the chair in the corner, and storming into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to make me wince.
Well.
Alright then.
That was probably the first time I'd ever been scolded for complimenting a woman.
It was pretty impressive how things had gone from epically good to a complete shitstorm in a matter of two minutes.
I couldn't pretend to understand why being beautiful—which she was, and she had to have known she was, and that everyone noticed that first because that was what they were looking at when they met her—was so bad, but she wasn't wrong.
She wasn't just beautiful.
There were plenty of just beautiful girls in the world, ones who built their entire personas around what was on the outside, the ones who chased fading beauty with Botox and filler and lipo and implants and lifts and nose jobs, knowing down to their core that all they had was what was on the outside because they hadn't taken the time to cultivate a personality along the way.
But Wasp was right.
She wasn't just pretty.
She was brilliant and resourceful and enigmatic and, yes, above all else, interesting.
Dare I say it? She was the most interesting woman I'd had the pleasure of meeting. And I only knew a small chip out of the iceberg.
There was so much more to uncover, so much more to become enthralled with.
I would have told her that, given the chance. But she'd cut me off before I could tell her just how amazing I thought she was, how I hadn't met anyone like her before, how my life felt a lot brighter with her in it, that I was enjoying seeing the world through her eyes.
I would tell her all of that.
Once she cooled down.
Once she realized she hadn't given me a chance to answer the question before she passed judgment.
"Wasp," I said, tapping my knuckles on the bathroom door.
"Fuck off, Fenway," she growled.
Alright then.
She wasn't ready to talk.
"I am going to go down to the pool."
"I don't care," she shot back, making my lips curl up.
I hadn't ever been a man who enjoyed angry women. I could see the theory about hot make-up sex. But I had dealt with enough anger in my life. I didn't want to romanticize it for the sake of a good lay.
So I pulled on my swim shorts and made my way downstairs, figuring she would be calmer after she got some time alone.
And she was.
But the tightening in my gut said that her calm as I came back into the suite wasn't a good calm.
No.
It was much like a calm before a storm.
Like that perfect stillness right before a tornado ripped through the town and destroyed everything you had come to care about.
I had no idea how right I would be about that.
I just enjoyed the amiable dinner, the easy conversation, even if my gut twisted recognizing something wrong in her posture, something tight in her voice, something that hinted at trouble, but I couldn't figure out what it was.
Hell, I was pretty sure even if I had years to analyze all the possible ways this whole situation could go belly-up—and why—I couldn't have come anywhere near to the truth.
I just basked in her smile.
I laughed at her jokes.
I told her I had a lead on her giant bats.
We talked about New Zealand and China, about Japan and India, all these places we were near enough to visit next, about all the possible tourist attractions there, about the food to be eaten, about the experiences to be shared.
I had no idea that she had absolutely no intention of going to New Zealand, China, Japan or India with me.
I had no clue, in fact, that she didn't even plan on finishing out the week with me in Australia.
TEN
Wasp
What the hell was wrong with me?
The sound of the door slamming set my teeth on edge as I lean back against the marble wall, hands pressing over my face.
Had he fucked me hard enough to knock my brain loose? Really, that seemed like the only possible explanation for what was going on here.
I was having an affair with a client.
I was having sex with a client.
I might not have been morally against it, but I damn sure wasn't exactly all for it either.
It made a situation stupid and messy when it should have been smart, carefully calculated, and neat.
For Christ's sake, I didn't do weekenders, let alone drawn-out multi-continental affairs with men. Not normal men. Not men I'd met in a bar and liked enough to go home with.
Let alone clients.
Clients who clearly were only interested in me because I was pretty. Because I had a good ass. Because I was all-too-wi
lling to spread my legs and play by their rules.
Oh.
Good.
God.
Had I fallen into Fenway's dicksand? Was that what this was?
The signs were certainly all there, weren't they?
Letting him whisk me away into his world, overwhelm me with his likes and desires, forgetting about my own plans, my own goals, my own desires?
And getting screwed so well that I lost some brain cells in the process.
Ew.
I was that woman.
I vowed never to be that woman.
And it was even worse that I was that woman to this man. This man who was clearly terrible enough at some point in his life, had hurt some woman badly enough in his past, to have her seek me out, pay me an exorbitant fee, and hurt him deeply on an emotional level.
Fenway was not my Roman.
He wasn't a good man.
He was fun, sure. He was entertaining, yes. He was even more layered than most people would know. And, of course, he was probably the best lay of my life.
But he wasn't good.
He was just another dog off his leash that I was hired to train, to bring to heel, to modify their behavior.
No one hired me for the little jobs, the guys who forgot Valentine's Day or shushed you when the game was on.
They hired me for the hopeless cases, the ones everyone had already tried to train.
I was for the lost causes.
I was a last resort.
I had gone and fallen into the dicksand of a man so bad that someone was willing to pay me a hundred grand to make him suffer.
What the hell did that say about him?
About me?
"God damnit," I growled, taking myself into the glass enclosure, turning the water to cold, hissing through a frigid shower.
This was over, I decided as I dried off.
I was giving it a couple more days without the sex, without the snuggling, without falling into the trap of his infectious enthusiasm.
I was close.
I knew it.
So close.
If I withheld sex, if I had him slobbering after me, I could get those words.
Once I got those words, I was done.
I was on a plane and I was fucking done.
I didn't know what that would mean for my mental health, if I was going to have some issue coming to grips with not only sleeping with a client, but losing my professional edge.
But that would be a problem for when I was back in the US, back in my skoolie, back on the road, back to freaking normal.
This had been a fantasy world.
I was playing Adventure Barbie and Yacht Barbie and What-The-Fuck-Were-You-Thinking Barbie.
This was not me.
Even as I went through the rest of my day trying to believe that, a niggling little voice at the back of my head was whispering things I didn't want to hear.
That if this wasn't me, then why had I felt more at ease with myself over the past couple of weeks than I had in the previous few years?
That if this wasn't me, why did my shoulders suddenly feel lighter, my heart warmer, my life brighter?
"Oh, Jesus," I hissed, hand flying to my heart when I went to open the bedroom door, only to find Alvy standing there.
Standing there like they were waiting for me, like they had something important to say.
"Let's talk," Alvy said, in a tone I hadn't expected from them, in one that was firm, cold, maybe even, I don't know, suspicious?
I could handle firm and cold.
Suspicious, though, that was cause for concern, wasn't it?
"We could talk about how your boss is a superficial dog who thinks women are only good for their looks," I suggested, breezing past them, making my way into the kitchen area, deciding breezy and a tad bitter was the truest reaction I could muster at the moment.
"Fenway is a lot of things. Superficial is one of them," Alvy agreed. "But I think you are smart enough to know that he wouldn't be dragging you all around the world just because you're pretty."
"Why not? Men do it all the time," I told them, reaching for the bottle of pink champagne, not caring that it was too early in the day for drinking.
"Sure. But, for the most part, Fenway doesn't."
"For the most part is not 'never,' Alvy."
"True. There have been brief infatuations in the past. But I have been here for longer than anyone else. I know this isn't that."
"I really don't think this conversation is appropriate," I said, leaning into the boss-employee mindset, hoping it would throw Alvy off enough to walk away.
"I have been in charge of buying Fenway condoms and lube for years, Wasp, I think we have crossed the line of appropriateness a long time ago. Besides, I'm not overly concerned with Fenway's behavior."
"So you're concerned with mine."
"He doesn't know your real name."
"He doesn't need to know my real name."
"He does if—"
"Oh," I said, scoffing. "Oh, well, that's real nice, Alvy," I said, shaking my head. "You are worried I am after him for his money."
"Well, you are staying in his suite. You did go to his yacht. You do have bags and bags of souvenirs."
"I think you must know as well as anyone else that Fenway enjoys spending his money. Have you ever tried to take out your wallet when he was around? He never lets you use it. And he will throw more and more money around to get servers and people in shops to take his side. I have never asked him to spend a penny on me. If you must, you are free to ask him that yourself. I can guarantee his words will line up with mine. And furthermore, I am insulted that you would even insinuate that. I am not some gold digger. I make my own way in life."
"As a dog trainer. A traveling dog trainer."
"It is not any of your business, but yes."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't believe I give a shit," I shot back, my anger being of the short fuse variety. "I'm not asking you to trust me, Alvy. Quite frankly, it is not your place. What Fenway thinks is what matters. And I have a feeling I know what Fenway would think about you coming in behind his back and trying to grill me over something that doesn't involve you."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I am telling you that I don't appreciate you coming to me with baseless accusations about wanting him for his money," I corrected, putting down my glass, making my way toward the door. "You know what, Alvy? I liked you," I told them in the doorway to the hall. "Really, I did. You were a good ally there for a minute, offering me escape routes should I ever get overwhelmed. That was a much better look than this one. Don't worry, though. I will keep this between us. And don't worry. I don't want his money. My most recent job set me up for quite a while."
With that, I slammed the door.
"Shit," I hissed, stabbing my finger in the elevator call button. "Shit shit shit," I mumbled over and over to myself as I rode down, the door sliding open, bringing in a woman who shot me small eyes. "Like you've never heard a curse word before. Please," I grumbled, my mood too sour to care about being a good human right then.
I wasn't sure if Alvy had gotten to Fenway yet, if that was their next step.But if that happened, it had the potential to ruin everything.
If there was one thing wealthy men hated, it was being told that a woman only liked them for their bank balance. It fucked with their ego. It made them feel small. And when men were made to feel small, they got mean.
I couldn't exactly picture Fenway being mean, but I also didn't imagine he would be fond of the idea that I was after him for the shopping sprees and the private jets and the yachts.
It would ruin everything if he started to wonder—even if just an infinitesimally small part of him started to wonder—if I was disingenuous.
Frustrated, needing an outlet for it so I could think straight, I took myself down to the pool, doing laps until my arms screamed, until my shoulders burned, until I felt a bone-deep sort of exhaustion settle over me.
I took myself back to the room, changing into shorts and a tee, falling into the bed, curling up under the covers, trying to figure out how to get Fenway in love with me, then secure enough to admit it, before the week was out.
This had to end.
Soon.
Because I was getting invested.
Because I was losing sight of the job.
Because Alvy was suspicious of me.
Because, despite my outburst, I actually didn't hate that Fenway thought I was beautiful.
I should have.
I always did.
From birth, that was all anyone had to say about me.
It didn't matter if I was a straight-A student, that I made high honor roll. I even distinctly remembered my seventh grade male English teacher pulling me aside after class when I asked to do an extra book report, and telling me that he was afraid I was taking on too much, that he'd hate to see pretty girls like me getting stressed out over grades.
Because all pretty girls were good for was marrying and pushing out pretty babies, right Mr. Radleigh?
Because I couldn't possibly have dreams or ambitions.
Every man—and many of the women—I encountered in my life believed my worth started and ended with the way my cells had happened to come together. My accomplishments, my intellect, my wit, the things I had a hand in creating, meant nothing.
I lost my virginity at fifteen to a perv neighbor because he called me clever. Not pretty. Not hot. Clever.
It took a long time for me to be able to work the hand life dealt me, to get what I wanted from men by taking advantage of the fact that no one thought someone like me actually had a head on their shoulders.
I was known for walking away from men at bars who complimented me. It was a running joke in my family.
When pretty became my job—the bait I used to lure in those men who needed to be punished in one way or another—I had learned to detach myself from everything superficial. It helped you feel less slimy when men talked about your eyes, your mouth—(and what they'd like to do to it)—, about your tits, about your ass, about your feet, for the foot fetish guys.
But it didn't feel slimy when Fenway said those things.
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