738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  Dazed with lust, I reflexively look to the side of the bed in confusion. We’re miles away from it.

  “Not that edge,” he says breathlessly. Then he reaches for the condoms on the nightstand.

  “Lift up for me?” he asks, tearing one open.

  Pushing up to my knees again, I watch, partly curious, partly uncertain as he grips himself and rolls the condom in place.

  He looks away to discard the wrapper on the nightstand, but he must see something in my expression when he returns his attention to me.

  “Come here,” he says, and I lean up, bracing my hand on either side of his head to kiss him. I’m still holding myself above him, and he patiently returns to petting me softly, rubbing his knuckle against me until I’m pushing hard to take his finger inside me.

  “Easy, just go slow. Give yourself time,” he says in my ear. “We can always stop.”

  But I don’t want to. This is my night, the one I asked for. And damnit, I’m not letting anyone, including me, take it away.

  I slowly sink down against him again.

  As I rub against him, the smooth glide returns, albeit with a little more friction.

  I tip my hips toward him and then he is pressing into me, stretching me in a not-unpleasant way as he enters.

  Chase swallows hard. “There you go—that’s it.” He arches up toward me, pushing in deeper, and it feels so good I instinctively press down against him.

  When I lift up again, the moisture from my body has coated him and makes the slide down on him that much easier.

  He groans.

  “Am I hurting you?” I ask, hesitant about how much pressure is too much, and all my weight is pressing on him.

  “Not even a little,” he says with flash of a smile. He pushes himself up on his elbows then, changing the angle and making me gasp at the feel of him inside me.

  Experimentally, I push down and feel the thickness of him slide deep into me. Instead of feeling violated or invaded, it just makes me feel … full.

  “Look,” he says hoarsely, lying flat on his back.

  I push myself up to sit directly on him and glance down to see where he ends and I begin. He’s buried inside me; we are as close as two human beings can be. And I’m not hurting, feeling scared, dirty, or used.

  “Oh.” I clamp a hand over my mouth. “It’s amazing.” Tears of gratitude, relief, and love flood my eyes.

  Chase laughs and reaches up to touch my cheek, where one of the tears has rolled free. “Yeah, you are,” he says softly, and I’m crying for real this time and smiling, too.

  His hands settle on my hips as he thrusts up in me, helping me push down against him in counterpoint.

  Then he moves his hand to press his thumb against me so that every move gives that extra brush of friction.

  He moans. “Yes, that’s it. You’re letting me in so deep. Just a little faster.”

  Hearing him talk to me, guide me, flips a switch in me that I didn’t know existed and I move against him harder, straining once again for that very top shelf.

  And before I realize it, I’m falling, that cascading dizzy sensation spiraling through me.

  “Amanda…”

  But I can’t speak; I fumble for his hand and squeeze it.

  Chase moves harder against me, then, seeking his release, and I try to keep up with him but my limbs are slow and loose with pleasure.

  He shudders beneath me, his body racked with spasms, and I love it.

  I love him. And I’m not letting go.

  30

  Chase

  The bright sunlight slicing into the room wakes me up with a jolt.

  Late. I’m late.

  I lurch up in a panic. But Amanda, curled against me, raises a hand, patting vaguely in my direction until she finds my shoulder.

  “Thursday. Night shoot tonight,” she mumbles against her pillow.

  And I relax, sagging into the mattress. That’s right. She’s right.

  But then what is the lingering unformed sense of dread hovering over me? Then I remember. Sera. The chain. Amanda refusing to go home. Everything I haven’t told her.

  Glancing over at Amanda again, I find that sometime in the night she got up and put my shirt on again. Her dark red hair is all over my pillow again, and I love the sight of it.

  I should let her go. I should wake her up, tell her everything, even if it means pushing her away. Especially if it means pushing her away. She’ll be safer at home, away from me.

  But the thought of that makes my chest ache. I don’t want it to end; I don’t want us to end. Not yet. I’ll do what’s best for her, but I just want a few more minutes, a couple more hours.

  Looping my arm around Amanda’s waist, I pull her tighter against me, kissing the back of her neck.

  She grumbles vaguely but wiggles against me, pressing her back to my chest, and her ass against my very awake cock.

  “Sorry,” I say into her soft skin, which still smells of soap. “Definitely a morning person.”

  I expect her to pull away or make a complaining noise. We didn’t get much sleep last night, and it’s early still.

  Instead she pushes back against me with a soft moan.

  I slide my hand down her leg, remembering yesterday morning and how quickly she came. She might not be a morning person, but parts of her seem to like it well enough.

  At my gentle nudge against the back of her knee, she slides her leg forward eagerly to let me touch between her thighs.

  “Are you sore?” I ask, gently nipping at her ear as I run my fingers lightly over her lips.

  “A little, maybe,” she says between gasps. “But different. More swollen feeling than hurt, if that makes sense.”

  Yes, yes, it does.

  “Tell me if it’s too much,” I say as I slide a finger into her. But she’s wet and slick for me already. Definitely a morning person.

  “Chase, yes. Chase,” she says, riding my hand with a fervor and desperation I haven’t heard before.

  I love hearing her say my name. “Touch yourself like you did before, okay?”

  I watch as her hand drifts beneath the covers and her fingers brush mine as they settle over her clit.

  The change in her is instantaneous and electric. She is bucking against my hand and hers, and I can feel her opening wide for more than my fingers.

  I have to pull away from her, over her protests, to grab for the last condom. The second was gone last night not long after the first.

  She starts to roll over toward me.

  “No, wait,” I say. I open the condom and roll it on quickly, chucking the wrapper away from us.

  When I return my fingers to her, she squirms eagerly against them.

  I press my lower body tighter against her. “Put your leg up on mine,” I whisper, sliding my hand down her thigh to her knee and helping guide her up and over.

  Then I inch closer, rubbing my covered hard-on against her, letting her get used to the slightly different sensation, what will be a sharper angle of penetration.

  She moans and slides herself against me, her foot working behind my calf, trying to draw me in closer. But we’re not quite lined up right.

  “I want to push in from behind,” I say, my voice hoarse with need. “Just like I did with my fingers. Okay?”

  “Yes,” she says, drawing out the word.

  Thank you, God. “Bend forward for me a little.”

  She shifts a few inches, bringing us into alignment.

  Using my hand to help get the angle right, I press the head of my aching hard-on into her. It’s tighter this way, and I don’t want to get it wrong and hurt her.

  She gasps.

  I freeze. “Too much?”

  “No … just … really good,” she pants.

  So maybe not just morning, but this position.

  Now that I’m in, I thrust again, deeper this time, and she moves with me, so slick and welcoming I’m going to lose my mind in a matter of seconds.

  But it doesn’t mat
ter because she’s already rocking faster than I am, taking me all the way in.

  “Your hand … touch yourself,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to hold on.

  I feel her touch herself and brush me where I’m plunging in and out of her, and she makes a soft surprised sound. Then the ripples start in her, clamping down hard on me.

  I groan and push into her faster, the need to spill building up in me, like pressure in my lower back, until it breaks, sending splinters of pleasure through me.

  When I return to myself, she’s running her hand over my arm in a soothing manner.

  “Wow,” is her only comment, with a small self-deprecating laugh.

  I kiss her flushed cheek. “Yeah, I think maybe that works.”

  She laughs, and I feel the contractions of it inside her. God. I don’t want to leave her, but a condom leak is a complication we don’t need.

  I shift away from her reluctantly, and she makes a noise of protest.

  “Back in a minute.” Climbing over the covers, off the bed, and into the bathroom to deal with a condom is my least favorite Olympic event ever, but it has to be done.

  While I’m in there washing my hands, clothes land in the doorway. My jeans, a shirt from my closet, boxers.

  “Pancake time,” Amanda says from outside in a determined cheerful voice. She’s not allowing time or space for the inevitable argument to begin.

  Except, is it so inevitable? The thought of watching her vanish down the road in a car hurts. I don’t want her to go. But I want her to be safe, and that means staying away while my stalker problem is out there somewhere. What if Leon and the cops catch Sera right away, though? They might even have her already; stealth wasn’t her strong suit. She tried to move into my condo, for fuck’s sake.

  So even if she’s out there now, she probably won’t be for long. And if Amanda wants to stay, is it that much of a danger? We have Leon, guards, people on our side. Plus, as Amanda has said to me over and over this week, she makes her own decisions. If I take that from her by unilaterally making a choice on her behalf, I’m doing exactly what she said, trying to control her. Which I don’t want to do. It’s what she’s working so hard to get back.

  So, maybe the real danger—and the unformed dread in my gut—is actually something else. Maybe it’s believing that, even if there is trouble, even if there’s risk, I’m still worth it to her. To anyone.

  I want to be worth it. I want to be worthy of her. Which means maybe I need to act like it. By asking her if she wants to stay and respecting her decision. And by telling her the truth about how we began and hoping she won’t change her mind.

  “Amanda—”

  “I’ll be back,” she calls from a distance. “I’m going to get clothes from my room.”

  “Wait.” I grab a towel, wrap it around my waist, and hurry after her.

  “You’re not seriously worried about me going to my room alone, are you?” Still dressed in my shirt, she stops at the closed and locked adjoining door but doesn’t turn around. “You checked it last night and there’s a guard outside.”

  “No, I…”

  Her shoulders slump. “After breakfast,” she says. “Remember?”

  “That’s not it,” I say quickly. “I just wanted to say … wanted to ask if…”

  A knock sounds loudly on my hallway door, more like pounding, enough so that we both jump.

  I frown. “Stay there,” I say.

  Amanda raises her eyebrows. “Because you’re more bulletproof than I am?” she asks. “Also, I don’t think she’d knock. We’d probably just see smoke curling in under the door.”

  She grimaces before I can say anything. “Sorry. Humor is my preferred defense mechanism.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I say. Pulling my towel tighter around my waist, I edge toward the door. But a quick look out the peephole shows Leon and two Wescott uniformed police officers in the hall.

  Thanks to my history, the sudden and unexpected appearance of cops signals trouble in my brain. But I throw back the bolt latch and open the door, hoping against hope that for the first time in my life, this is a good thing.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “Did you find her?”

  “Yeah,” Leon says grimly. “We did.”

  But he doesn’t look happy; in fact, he seems downright pissed. “These gentlemen would like to escort you to their place of business to answer a few questions.”

  Panic flickers in me. “Wait, what’s going on?”

  “Right now, they’re asking you to come in as a courtesy,” Leon says. “So get dressed and go before it’s not a request.” He looks at me in distaste, and my temper flares.

  “What the hell, Leon?” I demand.

  “Chase?” Amanda asks from where she stands by the other door, tugging at the hem of my/her shirt nervously.

  Leon and the two cops bristle like they’re going to leap at me.

  “That’s Amanda?” Leon asks, a frown carving his face into serious lines.

  “Yeah, we were getting ready to go to breakfast,” I say. “Can you just tell me what’s going—”

  “Tell us,” she calls loudly. “Tell us what’s going on.”

  But Leon ignores us. “Amanda, can you verify that you’re unharmed and here by your own decision?” he asks in a raised voice.

  Her face is one of shock and then pure, unadulterated fury. She snatches my jacket off the back of the chair, wraps it around her waist to cover herself, and then marches around the corner to stand next to me.

  “What is going on?” she demands, angry like I’ve never seen her before. “I’m fine. I’m here by my own decision, and I’ve been here all week by my own decision. What the hell.”

  “My apologies,” Leon says. “Recent developments”—his gaze cheats toward me—“have forced us to question what we know.”

  He shifts his full attention in my direction. “When is the last time you spoke to—”

  “I haven’t spoken to her, ever,” I say firmly. “Except to tell her to leave me the hell alone and that I’m calling the police.”

  “Not the stalker,” Leon says. “The publicist.”

  My stomach plummets. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  “That’s who you found,” I say weakly.

  “And she had plenty to say about you,” Leon says.

  “Of course she did,” Amanda spits. “He fired her.”

  “Did he?” Leon asks simply.

  “Yes, Sunday afternoon. Before we ever even talked to each other,” she says.

  I try not to flinch at hearing the lie I told repeated with such conviction.

  Leon’s gaze meets mine steadily, and I know I’m fucked. He knows. Everything, and whatever Elise may have invented to make things worse for me. She told me if she was caught she’d take me down with her.

  “I’ll get dressed,” I say, dread slowly weighing my limbs like concrete pouring through my veins.

  “Good idea,” Leon says.

  “Wait, Chase—you didn’t do anything wrong. He shouldn’t have to do this,” Amanda insists to Leon.

  She looks to me for confirmation.

  My mouth works without words coming out.

  “Chase?” she asks. There’s a hint of wariness in her voice suddenly, and I hate it. Hate that I caused it.

  But I don’t know what to say.

  Leon gives me a disgusted look and then turns a gentler expression toward Amanda.

  “Miss Grace, you’ve been given a misleading set of facts regarding your visit here,” he says.

  “I don’t understand,” she says, but she takes a step back from the door, and seeing her retreat kills something in me.

  “It was a setup,” he says.

  I close my eyes. I should speak up, but how do you argue with the truth?

  “You were told this was a charitable act, intended to draw positive media attention?” Leon presses.

  “Yes,” Amanda admits reluctantly.

  “According to Miss Prescott, she and Mr.
Henry have been secretly collaborating from the beginning to create the impression of a romantic relationship between the two of you. Without your consent or knowledge, as far as I know.” Leon pauses. “He lied, Miss Grace.”

  I hear Amanda’s sharp inhale. My eyes snap open against my will, and because of that, the stunned betrayal on her face will be etched into my memory forever.

  31

  Amanda

  “Amanda,” Chase begins in a voice gravelly with desperation, and if I had any doubt about what Leon was saying, it’s gone now.

  “No,” I say softly. All the pieces are falling into place with a horrible smoothness, like the picture has been there all along, just waiting for me to open my eyes and see it.

  The adjoining hotel rooms. Elise hadn’t been a pissed-off ex lashing out; they were scheming and I played right into it. No wonder Chase was so willing to let me stay in the room next to his.

  And was this why Chase loaned me his shirt on the first day? I warned him what it would look like and he … he said he didn’t care. Of course he didn’t. It was what he wanted in the first place.

  I’m aware suddenly of how exposed I am, wrapped in Chase’s jacket and wearing his shirt. Again. Like an idiot.

  I fold my arms over myself as best as I can. “How much of it was real?” I ask him, surprised by the calm deadness in my voice instead of the shrill hysteria I’m feeling. “Any of it?” I don’t care about the cameras or what happened in front of them; it’s everything that happened privately that I’m concerned with.

  His eyes widen. “Amanda, all of it. I went along with Elise’s plan at first, but I stopped.” His accent is stronger now. “You know I did. All the social media stuff—”

  “You said you fired her,” I say.

  He tightens his grip on the towel around his waist. “I did!”

  “When?”

  His gaze darts away from me, and my heart falls. “Amanda, I never wanted to—”

  “When did you fire her?” I repeat, enunciating each word carefully.

  “I sent her a text on Monday night, late,” he says finally.

  Monday night. A whole day after he came to my house with apologies and claims of firing the person responsible for the worst moment I’ve had since escaping Jonathon Jakes’s basement. And from the guilt in his expression, I know without even asking that it was also after I kissed him on Monday night. After he kissed me. He was still in contact with her. He only stopped it, theoretically, when he realized scheming was no longer necessary—I was willingly falling into their plan and his false assurances.