Truth & Temptation

by Riley Edgewood

  Or unravel me altogether.

  "Are you…" I swallow around the lump of nerves in my throat. "How often do you do this? Sleep with random girls?"

  There's a bit of a pause before he answers. "I'm not a priest. But I'm very careful. And I'm clean."

  If I can trust what he says—and I do, oddly, trust him, or want to, at least—maybe we won't have to do the awkward condom dance when things really get started.

  "I'm on the pill," I say, pushing the conversation toward what we're about to do. Plus, it's probably the type of conversation you should have before sleeping with someone. "And I'm clean, too."

  "Good to know." He's watching me, musing stretched across his features, and I have a feeling my own thoughts have been stretched across mine.

  "Anyway, you gave me four truths," I say, hastily. "I must owe you a couple more. Here. I'll give you three. Three truths, no lies. Ready?"

  He nods.

  "First…my mom actually is famous. Well. Half-famous, maybe." The words trip right over my tongue, falling out easily thanks to all the alcohol coursing through my system.

  "Really?" Curiosity replaces the shadow across his features, and I feel like I've achieved something awesome. "Who is she?"

  "Nope. Nuh-uh. That's a truth I'll never share." It's been years and years and years since I've spoken her name out loud. I don't plan to ever do it again.

  "What if I kiss it out of you?"

  "You'd have to kiss me for a very, very long time," I say. "I mean, I still wouldn't tell you. I'd just like for you to kiss me. For a very, very long time."

  "I have no problem with that." He crawls toward me, finally.

  I scoot down to let him rise over me.

  He takes his time.

  Dropping kisses along the tops of my feet, my ankles, my legs.

  Trailing his hands and then his tongue along my inner thigh, first one and then the other, and my entire body flashes with heat.

  Oh my God did I shave this morning?

  Wait. Is it tomorrow morning now? What time is it? My mind is so tired, but my body… My body is so alive.

  His tongue is silk against my skin and my blood is rushing, magnetized directly to the lines he's licking like arrows, up, up, up my legs. His hands are calloused. Why are his hands calloused? What will they feel like when they're… Right there.

  Slipping under my panties, drawing a line through the very center of me.

  "Oh my God, that feels so fucking good." Wait. Did I say that out loud? Shit. I did, didn't I? My mind is shutting down; I can't keep track of my thoughts. I can't keep track of anything except the way it feels to have his finger sliding through me, into me. Twisting, turning, curving until he's hitting a spot that makes me want to fucking sing and has all that heat shooting straight to where he's touching me. Liquid heat—I feel myself soaking into his hand.

  I think I say something again. I think I repeat myself. I wonder if I should be embarrassed. Am I reacting the way I should? It doesn't matter; I can't control myself, not with what he's doing to me. And Frank doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he tugs at the skin of my inner thigh with his teeth, sending tingles everywhere, muttering, "Jesus, you really are sweet."

  And then another long, slow lick along my leg, and when I force my eyes open, he's watching my face and I've never lived through a hotter moment in my entire life.

  "Kiss me, please," I hear myself say, not sure where the words are coming from. "I need you to kiss me. Right fucking now."

  "Where?" he asks, slipping in another finger and making me swallow so hard it's a miracle I don't choke. "Where do you want me to kiss you?"

  "My lips."

  "Which ones?"

  And my toes fucking curl.

  "My…" I struggle to get words out because of the pressure he's suddenly applying. With two fingers. And his thumb. I can barely breathe. "My mouth."

  "As you wish." He plants one more kiss against my thigh and slips his fingers out of me—smoothly enough to make me shiver. He guides his hands under my tank top, trailing a bit of my own wetness along my skin. "I wanted an excuse to take this thing off of you anyway."

  He lifts my shirt higher, trailing kisses along my stomach, until his hands are sliding over my breasts, his thumbs rubbing my nipples through the sheer fabric of my bra until they're so tight under his touch I might explode.

  "I haven't told you all three truths yet," I say, starting to ramble as a pressure in my stomach quivers and expands, warm and fluttery. "It doesn't seem fair. It's not even. You know?"

  Ramble, ramble, ramble. I can't shut my mouth.

  He lifts my shirt over my head and runs his mouth up my neck and along my jaw.

  I don't know what to do with what I feel. It's too much. Too intense.

  And I'm too dizzy.

  So I keep talking.

  I keep talking; I keep talking; I keep talking until I lose track of every word that falls from my mouth.

  And then I pass out.

  And then I wake up with the sun hitting my face and I can't recall a single damn thing about anything else from the end of the night.

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NOTHING. NOT A thing. I remember Frank kissing up my neck. I know I was jibber jabbering. And that's it. That's all I've got.

  Oh my God, Frank.

  I force my sandpaper eyes to open wider than their current narrow slits and I roll to my side.

  And there he is. Sleeping. Snoring softly on his inhales.

  How can I wake up so attracted to someone who snores?

  Maybe because even with his mouth slack, slightly parted, he looks like a damn Greek god.

  A Greek god I came home with. To have sex with.

  Oh my God, sex.

  Did we?

  I gently roll onto my back and run a hand over myself. Over my underwear. I don't feel touched, or tender. Or stretched. Or…who knows what it'd feel like after sleeping with this way-too-beautiful guy beside me?

  The point is, not me.

  We didn't do it. He's still in an undershirt, and—I slowly lift the covers to peek—his boxer briefs. Holy shit he's got morning wood, though.

  Yeah. No way that thing was inside me last night. I wouldn't be able to walk the rest of the day. Probably not tomorrow either.

  Yeesh.

  Frank sighs—and I freeze, but he only closes his mouth and settles more deeply into sleep. One of his arms is strewn out toward me, palm down like he's holding the covers in place, though he gave way easily enough when I lifted them. A strand of morning sunlight flows across his skin, highlighting an odd pattern of jagged scars across the top of his hand. I didn't notice them last night, though maybe I never looked. Plus, let's be real, every time he touched me with either hand, I lost a little focus. But I wonder what caused the scars. They're healed now, but the skin's still raised and whatever happened looks like it was painful.

  My eyes catch on something a few inches from his hand—my tank top. I quietly rise and reach for it, holding my breath—and he clears his throat, shifting behind me. Panic pushes me out from under the covers. I move slowly, carefully, and once I'm free, I dart into his bathroom to get dressed.

  At least from the waist up.

  Not sure where my pants are.

  No, wait.

  The memory slams into me like a physical blow. I remember sliding them down my legs last night, stepping out of them, straddling him… His lips on my neck, his hands riding up the skin of my stomach.

  How am I this turned on all over again from a memory—and while the dredges of a hangover are beginning to sink their claws into the sides of my skull? But the very skin of the very stomach he ran his hands along last night is quivering. And that is very much not from my hangover.

  Okay. It was one night. It's over. And now I need to get out of here. And the point is that my pants are at the side of his bed. I must've walked right over them, and now I have to go out to get them and he's probably wide awake waiting for me. For my pasty,
freckled legs in the light of day. And without the aid of alcohol to give them any sort of faux-confident swagger.

  Plus my knees are wobbly from remembering all the heat from last night.

  I splash water on my face and thank God there's an elastic around my wrist for me to tie my rat's nest hair up with. I find a tube of toothpaste in a drawer and squirt some onto my finger, rubbing it over my teeth and then rinsing some of the dried saliva out of my mouth.

  Hoping I'm at least halfway presentable, I pull the doors open like I'm not at all intimidated.

  And I nearly pass out with relief when Frank's no longer in the room.

  I finish dressing in privacy, and try to figure out if I'm glad we didn't sleep together, or disappointed. But it's the sinking weight of disappointment winning in my belly, because when will I ever have a chance like this again? Last night was unreal.

  Literally. Not real. He doesn't even have my name. He doesn't know anything about me, really. Everything he learned, he learned from Cindy…

  And now I have to figure out how to get out of here without making it worse.

  I should slip out. I should sneak down his stairs and let myself out the door.

  But I want one more glance. One more peek at what might've been. One more mental snapshot of the most beautiful person who's ever wanted me. I'll say goodbye. That's it. A quick goodbye, and then I'm gone.

  I sling my purse over my shoulder and tiptoe down the hall the best I can in last night's heels. I spiral myself halfway down his staircase, pausing when he comes into view.

  He's sitting at his kitchen island with a tall coffee mug in his hands. There's a second one in front of the seat next to him. And the air smells like cinnamon rolls, making my stomach grumble. I choose to think it's my step down onto the next wooden stair that makes him look up, though.

  "Good morning." Good. I'm the first one to speak.

  He clears his throat and waits until I'm all the way down to respond. "Hi."

  "Smells good." I walk toward him with a confidence I don't feel. It's exhausting. Especially hungover.

  Mostly because the sight of him stirs things up in me I don't want to deal with, especially sober.

  "I take mine black," he says, sliding the second mug toward me. "But I made yours extra sweet."

  "Please, please don't tell me it's as sweet as I am or something similarly lame." I'm so proud of my careless tone right now I want to take it out for ice cream.

  "You liked sweet drinks last night. I made an educated guess." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes and that makes me a little nervous.

  "Well then." I stop across the island from him, reaching to grab the coffee. "Your reasoning paid off. I do like my coffee extra sweet." And with the first sip I have to keep from moaning. It's perfect and creamy and smooth. Hot enough to burn the roof of my mouth, but I don't need taste buds after this anyway.

  "We should talk," he says, his tone serious enough to cancel out the pride I felt for my own a few seconds ago.

  "About?" I keep my gaze on his for approximately half a second before I can't take it anymore and I study the mug in my hands instead. Tall and blue, ceramic. Probably not dishwasher safe.

  "About last night."

  My chest tightens. He doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who'll be pissed we didn't bang… But I don't strike him as the type of girl who's named Teagan. We all have our secrets.

  "Listen," I say. "About that… Sorry I passed out. I don't usually make promises I can't keep."

  "You didn't make me any promises last night." His voice is sharp, and I can't help but look up. There's a muscle clenched in his jaw, his sexy, sexy shadowed jaw. "You don't owe me—or anyone else—anything."

  "No shit." I don't get where he's going with this, or why.

  I'm not sure he does either, because it takes him a few moments—and a few sips of coffee—to speak again.

  "You told me—wait." He breaks off, shaking his head, and nervousness swirls into panic in the pit of my stomach. I told him what? A fake name? Does he know? When he looks at me again, his gaze is so direct it's startling. "You don't even know my real name. Let's start there."

  Oh my God, he does want to discuss names. He knows I lied.

  Should I tell him the truth? Laugh it off like I thought he knew I was joking?

  He walks toward me and my stomach clenches for too many reasons to name.

  I grip my coffee mug like it'll shield me from any awkwardness.

  It's not working.

  At all.

  And then he's in front of me, watching me so studiously I slide a hand across my face in case there's something stuck there.

  "I'm Alec," he says, sticking out his hand. I check for, but don't find, any scars on this one.

  Don't tell me, is what I mean to say. But what slips out is, "I thought the girl last night called you Alex?"

  "Probably to irritate me. We hold no particular fondness for one another." He says it casually, like it weighs nothing in his mind. Still, I wonder why—and am tempted to ask—but then he continues with, "Anyway. I'm Alec Chambers."

  And his full name echoes through my brain, bouncing around and, instead of fading, growing louder with every iteration.

  It's officially worse.

  So. Much. Worse.

  I know his name.

  I know who he is.

  "Cool." I take his hand, offering the limpest shake of my life and letting go as soon as possible. "Do you have any headache meds or anything?" I gulp my coffee so fast it scalds my throat. "Got a crucial hangover."

  Got a crucial hangover? What am I? Some teenage surfer? Why don't I throw up a hang ten sign while I'm at it?

  But he takes the bait. "Probably somewhere upstairs—I'll go check."

  I don't even wait for the relief to hit. I get the hell out of his condo the second he's far enough away not to hear his door shut.

  The glass elevator seems so much more appropriate this morning. Almost like the universe is handing me a dose of the snide sarcasm I use so spectacularly on my own. Everything I wanted to keep hidden is about to be made clear, whether I like it or not.

  Fuck.

  I went after a fairy tale, but I didn't get it—and the stupid fucking clock just struck twelve anyway. Here's my Cinderella moment, fleeing before I return to tatters before his eyes.

  But this time, the prince won't need a glass slipper to find me.

  Because Alec Chambers?

  His father is the CEO of Chambers & Britt.

  I know this for a fact because my starting position at the company is to be the second assistant to the CEO's son, while he's home for the summer, studying for his MBA from fucking Harvard. And that son's name? Yep. It's Alec Chambers.

  I'll see him again on Monday.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MAYBE I SHOULD quit… But I shake my head before the thought's finished filtering through my mind. I shove myself out of the apartment complex, squinting in the bright morning sun. I'm desperate for this job. Considering I was fired from my last one—and especially the reason for it—makes getting hired anywhere else pretty much impossible.

  When Frank—or, no, Alec—figures out who I am, I'll probably be fired all over again.

  This is bad. This is so, so bad.

  But, like I'm being granted some sort of respite to the rest of this shitty situation, there's a cab waiting out front. The driver looks up when I exit, and I dash straight to him.

  I open the door, breathless and nervous. Every second that ticks by gives Alec one more second to come after me.

  "Go," I say, slamming the door. "Please. The faster, the better."

  I don't care that I'm stealing someone else's cab, but karma is a total effing bitch and we don't even make it out of the long driveway before I'm yelling for him to stop.

  Because my cash is in Cassidy's blazer.

  And Cassidy's blazer is somewhere in Alec's place.

  The cab driver is not pleased and, understandably, refuses to ev
en drop me off at Springs Corner right up the street.

  So I hoof it. In last night's wrinkled outfit, wearing a mangled wreck of a bun in my hair. And after the third honk from a passing car, I want to murder someone. Anyone. Maybe Alec. Mostly myself.

  Humiliation is hot and unforgiving in my veins.

  I call Cassidy over and over and over again.

  Finally, Gage answers her phone, his voice all groggy like I woke him up. Boo-freaking-hoo. He tells me Cassidy's in the shower. I tell him I don't care, get her out. She, at least, responds like a friend, telling me she'll throw on clothes and rush to come get me without even needing an explanation.

  "I can't tell if this means things went well with that guy or not," she says before I've even gotten my seat belt on. "I'm thinking maybe not?"

  "That guy? You mean the one you had to tell I hadn't gotten laid in a while?" I glare at her when she snorts. Her hair's wet, flung up in a bun, and I can tell she didn't stop to put on a bra under her T-shirt. I should be nicer to her. But I don't have anything nice in me at the moment. "Yeah. I went home with that guy. And guess what? Turns out he's my fucking boss for the summer." I'm suddenly furious all over again that she thought it was funny, then or now.

  She pauses mid-giggle. "Are you kidding?"

  "Why the hell would I kid about something like this?" Why the hell would I get myself into this situation? "He's your dad's CEO's son. Working for the summer until he returns to his Ivy League MBA program. I was hired by his dad's secretary to be his second assistant for the summer. Because apparently one isn't enough." Then it hits me. "How could you not tell me who he was?"

  She blinks. "How would I have known?"

  "Your dad is his dad's second-in-command. You can't tell me you've never met Alec before."

  Understanding dawns across her face. "I haven't, Teag. I swear. Not once. There aren't, like, company family functions all the time. I've been to Mr. Chambers' house for dinner before but I've never met his kids. They're all out of the house, I think. Maybe if I'd paid better attention to pictures, or—oh my God, he does look like his father. There was something familiar about him, but I didn't place it. Because he's hot and I've never thought of his dad that way. But I should've re—"