by Bethany-Kris
They paid.
The spoiled ones always did.
That was all that mattered.
“Let’s party,” one of the Ken-doll look-a-likes said to the girl on his arm.
“Yes, let’s do that,” Catherine said with a smile.
They said party.
She heard money.
Catherine stared at her reflection in the club’s bathroom mirror, and ignored the giggling, drunk group of girls at the other end of the line of sinks. She touched up her lipstick, and then brushed a small streak of white powder off her black dress.
She was done with the people upstairs for the night, and ready to go home. After her session with Cara a week before, Catherine had been trying to focus on getting ready for her full-time classes to start again. Come Monday, she would be sitting in lecture halls and working on things that bored the hell of out her.
Yet, she didn’t have the nerve to quit.
Not entirely.
Quitting would mean explaining to her parents what she planned on doing, or rather, what she already had been doing for almost a decade. It would mean explaining how she learned to hide dirty money by buying expensive, luxury clothes, bags, and shoes just to get rid of it. It would mean confessing she had learned how to launder her drug money by the time she was twenty-one in businesses she had invested in using the trust fund her parents made for her.
Catherine wasn’t ready for those conversations.
Not yet.
Sighing, she pushed away from the sink and headed for the bathroom door. The drunk giggles of the girls echoed behind her, but they didn’t follow. She peeked her head out the door, and looked down the dark hall toward the back offices. A couple of the bouncers stood with their back turned to her, chatting. A couple just a few feet away from them were kissing against the wall.
Catherine stepped out of the bathroom only to find she should have looked down the other way, too. One of the guys from the VIP loft that had enjoyed a little bit too much cocaine was waiting for her. He crowded Catherine against the wall before she even knew what was happening.
His cocaine-blown pupils looked down at her. “There you are, girl.”
This shit sometimes happened. More often than Catherine liked. Part of her thrall, especially with guys, was the way they liked her to act. Flirting, smiling, and all that nonsense. Sometimes the men understood it was just a part of her game, but other times they took it too far.
Truth was, she learned it was the shitty nature of the business. She also learned how to take care of herself in these goddamn situations.
“What was your name again?” Catherine asked the Ken-doll look-a-like.
“Matthew.”
She ignored how close he was to her, and how he pressed into her body like he was finding something he liked to feel. Instead, she flipped open the top of her clutch while it was down at her side, and waited.
From surface appearances, no one would think anything was wrong. Catherine preferred to keep it that way when drawing bad attention meant she might not be allowed back into a club.
“Right. Matty, they called you.”
“I was thinking …”
Catherine smiled sweetly. “I bet that’s a new concept for you, huh?”
His brow dipped. “What?”
Right over your head, pretty boy.
“What were you thinking?” she asked.
“I want another line of your shit, but preferably at my place, and straight off your back while I’m behind you.”
“That’s a no,” Catherine said.
Matthew pushed harder into her. “Come on. Don’t pretend like you don’t want this. Or is it like something else with you? How many zeroes attached to a one would it take to get a taste of your cunt, Catty? Three? Four?”
“More money than you will ever have.”
“I doubt that.”
“Don’t.”
“So you’re a fuckin’ tease, then.”
And that was Catherine’s cue.
She let him know she wasn’t interested. He took it further, and she had to slight him. All these guys acted the same way when put in that position. They got their pissy little pride hurt, so they had to hurt her. His hands came up to find her throat, but she didn’t even blink when he squeezed.
Catherine let her almost-empty clutch fall to the floor now that she had her small handgun tight in her palm. She clicked the safety off at the same she used her other hand to find the sharp, small switch blade at her thigh.
The knife went to Matthew’s cheek.
The gun went to his groin.
Catherine cocked back the hammer of the gun, and dug the tip of her knife into his cheek with a smile. “Now you get to learn a lesson, pretty boy.”
Matthew’s eyes went wide, and his fingers loosened on her throat.
She didn’t move an inch. Not her gun, or her knife. She didn’t look away from him, either.
“I’m neither your toy, nor your bitch,” Catherine said lowly. “I am your dealer. You want drugs from a pretty face, that’s what I’m here for. Anything else, and I’m going to take a pound back from you for it. You choose—your face or your dick.”
Matthew blinked. “What?”
“Face or dick. Choose.”
“You can’t do—”
“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” Catherine interrupted. “Choose, or I will do it for you. Keep your dick, and ruin your face. Lose your dick, and keep your pretty face. Don’t worry, all those zeroes in your bank will fix whatever happens, I promise.”
Matthew stumbled on his words.
Catherine chose.
Her knife left a one inch slice across his cheek that bled instantly onto her blade. He jumped back with a holler that gained the attention of the bouncers down the way. She was already picking up her clutch and heading out into the swell of people, making sure to hide her gun in the bag quickly.
She didn’t even notice the form she passed at the mouth of the hallway that led onto the dancefloor until he was behind her. She only knew she needed to get away and make sure the bouncers didn’t get a good look at her.
“Whoa, slow down, babe.”
The familiar voice was followed by someone grabbing her wrist in the crowd. Catherine turned fast, already flicking the bloody blade of her knife out and putting it to the throat of a very handsome face.
Cross didn’t even flinch.
In fact, he grinned.
And fuck him for it, too.
The grin looked good. Like all of him. Dressed in a black on black suit, with leather shoes to match, and a deep red tie. Sex and sin and problems.
Sexy.
Dangerous.
Bad for her health.
Dark.
Lovely.
Catherine didn’t lower her knife.
“Quite a show back there,” he told her.
Catherine’s gaze narrowed. “You were watching me … following me?”
“Zeke—do you remember him?—owns this club, Catherine. I happened to be upstairs in the corner when you came in. You didn’t see me. I had my back turned. Zeke let me know you were there, that’s all. I didn’t intend to follow you until I heard the guy say something about looking for you when you skipped out. I just came to check—”
“To what, protect me?”
Cross scoffed. “Apparently, you do that just fine on your own, babe. He never would have picked his cock, by the way.”
“No man ever does.” Catherine let her knife drop to her side. “Quit smirking like that.”
His lips quirked at the corner again. “Am I?”
“Cross.”
“If you’re already here, can I buy you a drink?”
Catherine looked away. “I don’t drink.”
He should know that, after everything.
“Good,” Cross said, reaching out to stroke her cheek with two fingers. Anyone else, and Catherine would have pulled away. It was habit and instinct and love that made her punish herself by letting him
touch her and enjoy it. “Then have a dance with me. You still dance, don’t you? I loved that, Catty.”
She shivered in her heels, confused and overwhelmed all at the same time. Invisible butterflies beat inside her stomach and into her throat. She hadn’t felt that sensation since she let this man take her virginity when she was sixteen.
“You don’t speak now?” Cross joked.
Catherine let out a soft exhale, and met his dark gaze. “I was told by someone to do what felt right where you were concerned.”
He chuckled. “What do you mean, someone?”
Cara.
Her therapist.
She didn’t tell him that.
“Someone,” Catherine repeated. “The problem is, Cross, every fucking thing feels good and right with you, and you can’t even help it.”
“But is it really a problem when it’s like that for us?”
Yes.
“Let me save us both some time here,” Catherine said, knowing exactly where this whole thing would take the two of them. “Let’s pretend like we danced, but don’t. Let’s act like we talked, you were arrogant, charming, and good-looking, because you are. Except we actually won’t talk at all. I didn’t bring my car; I took a cab because it’s easier. So you can drive me back to your place because you are not coming to mine. We’ll fuck, and there you go. That’s what’s going to happen anyway, Cross, because it just will. Let’s save time and nonsense, and go.”
He cocked a brow.
Catherine just stared at him. “Well?”
“All right,” he murmured.
“I don’t have to worry about Jamie-the-Chef breaking down my door in the morning, do I?” Cross asked as he shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. “Because I would hate to have to clean up blood before noon.”
Catherine’s brow furrowed in the sweetest way, and then recognition lit up in her eyes. “First, I’m not with him or dating him, so no.”
“But you were, at some point.”
“Would you like to go over the women you’ve hooked up with since we were together?” she asked with a condescending smile.
Cross tucked his hands in his pockets. “No, not particularly.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Second?”
“You’re a jealous prick.”
Only for her.
“That’s accurate.”
Catherine moved silently through the open floor of the penthouse, and her fingers drifted over the shiny, black Baby Grand piano. “This is new.”
“New to the penthouse. Not a new item.”
She shot a look over her shoulder, but he didn’t explain further.
Stepping up to the wall of windows that overlooked the outside deck and the high-rise condo across the way, Catherine kept her back turned to him as she sighed. “So you didn’t sell the place, then? I thought you had, or something.”
Cross’s brow dipped. “When, or why, did you think that?”
She waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just thinking out loud.”
He reached for the gold tinted whiskey bottle on the wet bar, but hesitated. “You don’t mind if I drink, do you?”
Catherine didn’t even turn around. “Why would I?”
“It crossed my mind, considering your … you know.”
“My history?” She laughed. “It’s my responsibility to handle my triggers and navigate daily life that are filled with said triggers. It is not everyone else’s responsibility around me to change their lifestyles and preferences to manage my needs. It is my choice not to drink; it is not your choice or necessity.”
“Although they could manage it, if you needed them to.”
“Except I don’t,” she said simply. “I don’t mind, Cross. Honestly.”
Cross was kind of shocked at Catherine’s depth in her explanation, and how flippantly she offered it. As though it was something she had been told again and again, and likely repeated to herself over and over.
Maybe it was.
How was he to know?
Cross poured his whiskey into a lowball and sipped from the glass, all the while keeping an eye on Catherine. “I assumed alcoholics—”
“I’m not an alcoholic, or a drug addict,” Catherine interjected quietly. “I am someone who suffers from spells of clinical depression, accompanied by crippling anxiety caused by trauma. I used to self-medicate in an effort to feel better during those spells, which led my body into a dependency, as it does when you use frequently and a lot. That doesn’t make me an alcoholic or addict. I don’t crave either of those things like addicts do. I crave normalcy, happiness, and calm. For me, I mean. It’s not the same thing.”
“I didn’t know that,” Cross admitted.
And he kind of hated himself for it.
A lot.
Catherine shrugged, and still didn’t turn around. “It is what it is, but it’s better that I know why I do what I do … or did, I guess. It’s not for anyone else around me to worry about, to be honest. They’re not the ones who need to crawl their way out of depression. The tools they have won’t stand me back up again. I do all of that on my own. I learned to do it on my own.”
“Yet, you still choose not to drink, even if you’re not an alcoholic.”
“Drinking is a trigger, much like stress or strange men that smell a certain way.”
Cross frowned into his glass. “Strange men?”
“Men I don’t know.”
“And they have to smell like what, exactly?”
“Like my rapist did.” She looked at him again over her shoulder. Those green eyes of hers burrowing into him, and pinning him in place. “I said no talking, remember? We’re not supposed to be talking, Cross. We were going to skip all of that.”
He grinned around the rim of his glass. “I’m enjoying this, Catty. It’s been a long time. Don’t fault me for it.”
“No more talking,” she said simply.
Cross had a feeling he had gotten all the conversation he was going to get out of Catherine for the moment. Besides, if she was more interested in jumping into his bed for the evening, he was perfectly fine with providing her that.
It was something.
Something between them.
He could work with that.
“Strip,” he murmured.
Catherine’s shoulders stiffened as she turned, and put her back to the windows. “What did you just say?”
“Strip, babe. Take that dress off. Keep the heels. Let your hair down out of that chignon. Show me what’s going on under that dress. You know how this goes.”
She gestured at the windows. “Where everyone can see, huh?”
“The lights are off in here. For the most part, you’ll look like a shadow. A very beautiful, sexy shadow. Don’t act shy, Catherine. It’s not even the tenth time we’ve fucked in front of those windows. You were barely beyond eighteen the first time. Strip.”
A wicked gleam lit up her eyes, and Cross knew then that he had her caught. As she began to tug the pins from her hair, he moved past the couch to a chaise. It had been situated to overlook the windows or the piano. He sat down just as she was tugging the zipper down on the side of her black dress.
The dress hit the hardwood floor with barely any sound at all, and Catherine stepped out of it, careful not to trip in her heels on the fabric. Black lace covered her tits, and matching panties hid the heaven between her thighs.
For a moment, Cross simply let his gaze wander. It had been far too fucking long since he could appreciate the beauty of Catherine in barely anything at all. Heels and lace. She was all legs, olive-toned skin, and hair that fell to her mid-back. Delicious, addictive curves from her thighs, to her hips, her waist, and her breasts. He had always appreciated that Catherine was not a woman who associated her worth to the number on a scale. She was tone, sure, but not unhealthy.
Dainty shoulders that had carried too much weight, and collarbones that showed, and begged to be bitten. A sweet, teasing mouth with a perfect Cup
id’s bow and full enough to look sinful wrapped around his cock.
Catherine wet her lips, and smiled at him. “Stare much?”
“Only at the most beautiful things,” he admitted.
She certainly fit that bill.
Catherine glanced away. “Careful, Cross. Start going in that direction, and we’ll be back to talking again.”
“Oh?”
He didn’t think that was a bad thing.
She clearly did.
“Yes, we’ll talk, and you’ll be sweet. Instead of fucking, like we’re supposed to do, we’ll end up making love. I don’t want that, okay?”
Didn’t she know? Even when he fucked her, he was loving her.
Cross chose not to point that out. He set his glass of whiskey aside. “Come here, babe.”
Catherine only had a few steps to get to him, but each one was damn near mesmerizing. She stopped in front of him, and from where he sat on the chaise, he was eye-level with the diamond tipped barbell in her navel. Unable to stop the rising urge to get a taste of that diamond and gold piece of jewelry, he reached out to grab her waist.
His hand still fit in the curve beautifully. Like she had been crafted and made only for him.
Cross pulled Catherine closer, and his mouth encased her navel. His tongue flicked against the larger diamond on the barbell, and he looked up at her. Catherine grinned back at him.
She reached over and dipped two fingers into his glass of whiskey. Cross was already kissing down her smooth stomach when she made a wet line of whiskey from just above his lips to that goddamn navel piercing.
Really, he didn’t mind.
He licked and kissed his way back up that line of alcohol, and felt the heat rise to the surface of her skin while a shiver tremored under his fingertips. He slipped his other hand between her legs, and under the line of her lace panties.
Shifting the material to the side, he stroked the line of her soft, bare sex with two fingers. Her tart-smelling arousal soaked his fingers when he stroked harder, and let his digits slide into her slit. Just enough to feel—hot, wet, and tight. All the while, he kept his gaze lifted to watch Catherine above him.
He was teasing himself.
