Without stopping to find the right words, I perch myself on the side of her lounge chair.
“What’s up? Is everything okay? You look weird,” she says.
I try to relax my jaw, and clear my throat.
“Everything is more than okay. Everything is perfect, because you’re in my life.” I slide off the chair, and kneel on the grass beside her. Her hands fly to her mouth. “Eloise Hutchinson, will you marry me?”
I open my hand, and reveal the ring sitting on my palm. My mother’s ring. I didn’t look at it closely in the house, I was too surprised that my father actually sent it to think about anything else. It’s as amazing as I remember it, one big round diamond solitaire on a white gold band.
“Yes,” Eloise cries, flying out of her chair and throwing her arms around me.
I take her hand and slide the ring on her finger. It fits perfectly.
She holds her hand out, admiring the ring.
“That’s what came in the package,” I say.
“Where from?” she asks and gasps, “Oh, is this your mother’s?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding.
Eloise nestles her head against mine. “It’s beautiful. I feel so honored.”
“I’m the one who’s honored. You came back into my life and made everything good again.”
Holding her chin, I crush my lips against hers. She whimpers, and I lay her down on the grass, and move over her. I trail kisses down her neck and swollen breasts, making my way down her body to give her another mind-blowing orgasm or two. Orgasms that are even stronger with her piercing.
***
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Hung
When I decide I want something, I get it. And I want her.
Billionaire Lawson Heywood is ruthless and unforgiving with his business. He’s earned the right to be arrogant. With his broad shoulders and panty-dropping charm, he can have any woman he wants.
He sets his sights on a young artist and gets one taste.
A sweet innocent kiss that tempts him for more.
But Skye Simmons isn’t going to be a notch on his headboard. She’s not interested in his sh*t.
Lawson has no intention of letting this angel slip through his fingers. He won’t stop until he has her against his wall, panting and begging for more.
*** A steamy STANDALONE contemporary romance with a hot, dominant alpha. No cliffhanger, no cheating and a guaranteed happily-ever-after.***
The Rich Bitch
(Skye)
“Don’t give up,” Ava says.
“It’s not like I have a choice,” I say, frowning as I examine the way I’ve captured the movement of water on my canvas.
“There’s always a way. We’ll find it, have faith.”
“I’ve been here six months and have sold exactly one painting.”
“And that one painting was great, just like all your others,” she says gripping my shoulders and squeezing. “It’s just about being discovered. It will happen. You’re too good for it not to.”
“I’m too crap, and that’s why it won’t happen. If I was any good, it would’ve happened by now.” I fling my brush onto my wooden tray and sigh. Being faced with rejection every day has destroyed any belief I had in my abilities.
“That’s not true. If you weren’t any good, I wouldn’t let you live here rent-free. I’d go find an accountant who arranges all her rent payments upfront.” Ava wears a bohemian scarf wrapped around her head, and it bobs as she waggles her head.
“Thanks for reminding me what a freeloader I am.”
It hadn’t started that way. When I first moved to Santa Barbara I paid Ava rent, funded by an inheritance from my grandmother. But art supplies cost a fortune, and I was running through my inheritance so quickly that Ava decided not to accept any more rent from me, no matter how hard I tried to pay her.
“You aren’t a freeloader. You’re going to owe me the commission from your tenth and twenty-fifth paintings sold, remember?”
The corners of my mouth turn up and I can’t help but laugh. “One painting isn’t going to make up for all the rent I’m not paying you.”
“Yes, it will. It won’t take as long as you think, not if you keep on painting like that.” Ava nods her head to the bold colors and delicate swirls on my canvas. We both stare at it for a few minutes. All I can feel is frustration at it. Frustration that no matter how much effort I put into it, no matter how much of my blood, sweat and tears, it’s most likely going to end up gathering dust in the attic.
“I don’t know how to thank you for all the support you give me. Both financial and emotional. I would’ve given up weeks ago if it wasn’t for you.”
She squeezes my shoulders and says, “Skye, listen to me. You are one of the most talented artists I’ve ever come across. You’re a dream come true to me. Every art history professor dreams of discovering a talent like you. It’s an honor to have you in my home.”
“I’m going to request extra shifts at the restaurant. I know they said they only need me on the busy Thursday, Friday and Saturday evening shifts, but I heard a rumor that one of the guys on the day shift has been slacking and is going to get fired.”
“Absolutely not. You cannot work during the day. You need to be here, capturing the natural light.”
“But…”
“There is no but. Either you’re serious about supporting yourself from your art or you’re giving up. There’s no in between.”
I take my brushes to the utility sink in the next room and begin cleaning them, Ava continues to stare at my work in progress.
She’s very kind but I struggle to understand why. My own parents have disowned me for wasting the money my grandmother left me. They insist painting is a hobby and not a real job, and that I need to get myself a real job real fast.
Ava found my blog online and, according to her, knew in an instant I was set for big things. She even paid for my plane ticket from Michigan. At first I’d assumed she was rich because she has a nice house with a view of the ocean in the distance. Then I found out she’s given away most of her money to various charities for fighting poverty and realized she only kept the amount of money she felt she needed.
I should’ve known, given the anti-poverty and ‘share the wealth’ themes of my paintings.
Knowing she isn’t rolling in money makes me feel even guiltier about not being able to pay her rent. As it is, on top of my paycheck, I’m still dipping into my inheritance and all I’m covering is my art supplies, the upkeep of an old banger I bought to get to and from work and my groceries. Though I take as much food from the restaurant as I can.
“I see it,” she says from the next room.
“See what?”
“The meaning. I see what you’re doing. It’s genius.”
Patting dry the brushes in my hands, I walk back into the room she has converted into a studio for me. It’s mostly empty, and light floods through the large windows onto the easel standing in the middle of the room. Ava is a few feet away from it, staring at it with her hands on her hips.
“What do you see?” I ask, knowing there’s no way she sees the real meaning, which is my lack of a sex life.
“The movement in the water represents the movement of money. It’s all gathering over here,” she says, pointing to the top corner, “in a sort of whirlpool. I assume that’s the one percent?”
“Is it too obvious?” I’m not about to tell her the whirlpool is actually my poor pussy, and the movement in the water is all the action I’ve never experienced.
Instead of going out and socializing like everyone else in high school and college, I spent every waking second studying and practicing different techniques. Twenty-three and never been kissed. It’s pathetic, even if I do know a zillion differe
nt ways to lay paint on a canvas.
“Not in the least. Remember, I have the benefit of knowing you and knowing your themes. It’s perfect the way it is. You really are amazing, I hope you see that. To most people, this is a beautiful image of the seaside. It would look pretty on any wall.”
“You really think so?”
She turns and grabs the tops of my arms, shaking me gently. “Stop doubting yourself. You’ll drive yourself crazy!”
“Thank you. For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without your support.” Especially without my parents in my life. Ava’s now the closest thing I have to a mother, even though she’s nearly old enough to be my grandmother.
“Stop being silly.”
“I have to get ready for the money-making job now.”
***
Late for my Saturday night shift as usual, I rush into Johnny’s Roadhouse, making my way as fast as I can to the staff changing area. I say changing area, it’s more or less a big closet lined with hooks to hang our stuff on.
I grab my apron out of my bag, and tie it around my waist. The dress code is pretty boring: black pants and a white T-shirt. At least I don’t have to wear any buttons or flashing lights.
“You’re late,” my boss Kevin says, his overgrown eyebrows narrowed and his gnarled finger pointing at me.
“Sorry, Kevin, won’t happen again.”
“Two customers just sat down at table six. I was going to give it to Melanie, but get on it.”
“I’m going.”
I grab two menus, plaster a smile across my face and make my way through the rows of tan wood booths in my section of the restaurant until I spot the table that’s just arrived.
“Good evening and welcome to Johnny’s Roadhouse. I’m Skye, and it’s great to see you both here tonight. The specials are on the first page of the menu.” I say this so many times each shift that I practically go into a trance now I pretend I’m looking at them, but really my eyes are scanning the license plates on the wall behind them.
When I finally do look at the couple, the woman sticks out. She doesn’t seem like she belongs in here. This isn’t exactly the kind of place where you wear an evening dress and sparkling earrings that hang to your shoulders, but clearly no one told her that. I want to ask her if she got lost on the way to the mansion party, but don’t. Wouldn’t want to mess up my tip.
I pass her a menu and turn my attention to the man. For a moment, I’m speechless as I take him in. He doesn’t look like he belongs with the woman. He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt that’s pulled taut over his broad chest, with two full sleeves of tattoos on display. His dark hair is intentionally messy and there’s a day’s worth of stubble peppering his strong jaw. He’s most definitely appropriate for this joint. Or any joint.
He pulls the menu from my hand, and I realize I’ve been frozen in place instead of handing it over.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“No problem,” he says. He looks at me, and when we make eye contact a jolt rushes up my spine.
I let go of the menu and hurry to my station. It’s a cramped spot hidden in the back corner of the dining area; a place I can watch my tables without them seeing me. Normally I think of it as my jail cell, but tonight I use it to spy on the hot guy.
Drawn
(Lawson)
My eyes fix on that fine waitress’ ass as she walks away from our table. Skye, she said her name was. Appropriate for such a heavenly body.
Despite what my sister Julie had promised, my date had turned out to be yet another gold digger.
I hadn’t intended to bring Freya here. But when I picked her up and she was dressed that way, and she had giggled, actually fucking giggled, at every little thing I said, it had become pretty fucking obvious that she was more interested in my money than in me.
Why did I let my sister set me up on a blind date? I knew it would end up like this.
Normally I show them a good time for the evening — in and out of my bed — but Freya annoyed me from the start and I thought I’d have a little fun with her.
When I saw the glowing red Johnny’s Roadhouse sign, I slammed on the brakes of my Maserati and pulled into this place. Freya’s mouth had hung open in shock when I told her there’d been a change of plans. Yacht party out, low-end restaurant in. If she handles herself well here she might — and that’s a very big might — get a second chance.
This place is perfect for Freya. I’ll bet it’s her first time sitting in a booth. Or the first place she’s ever been with license plates on the wall. Why am I wasting my time with her?
Skye returns to our table and asks, “Have you decided yet?” Her big brown eyes shine as she says it.
“Where are the salads? I don’t see any on the menu,” Freya says.
“There’s chicken Caesar in the chicken section,” Skye says, pointing to the menu.
“That’s it? Where are the healthy ones?”
“I can do it without the chicken if you prefer.”
“Do you have any idea how many calories are in Caesar dressing?” Freya’s lip curls into a snarl as she says it, implying Skye is the dumbest person alive.
“Would you like the dressing on the side?”
“No, I would not. I’m not about to eat plain romaine lettuce.”
Skye glances at me, a look of exasperation on her face. I can’t help but smile; it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud at Freya.
“How about a burger?”
“No! I haven’t eaten a burger in years, and I’m not about to change that now.”
“I can do it without the bun.” Skye looks at me and winks.
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Okay, chicken strips in a basket?”
“What is wrong with this place?”
“Bread, then. How about some bread?” I’m liking Skye more by the second.
“I do not eat carbs.”
“How’s the Caesar with dressing on the side sounding now?”
“Fine. I saw fruit salad on the dessert menu, I’ll just fill up on that after my lettuce.” Freya says, huffing.
“And for you, sir, what would you like? Another salad?” My dick twitches at the way she calls me sir. That’s something I’d like more of.
“Fuck no, I want a burger.”
“How about I add bacon and cheese to that?”
“Perfect, Skye.” She goes to take my menu but I hold onto it tight, not quite ready for her to leave the table. And leave me alone to forced conversation with boring Freya again. What was my sister thinking, setting me up with her? Why couldn’t she have found someone like Skye?
“Did you want to keep your menu?” She holds my eye contact as she speaks, something most people can’t do.
“Nope, it’s all yours,” I say, releasing the menu.
Skye turns and walks away from the table, and once again I’m enjoying watching the sway of her ass.
“Why did you bring me here?” Freya’s voice is halfway between disgust and tears.
“I wanted a burger.”
“I thought we were going to a yacht party.” And that’s what she’s all about. I bet if they served burgers on the yacht, she’d eat one. She strikes me as the kind of person who would do whatever it takes to get to play with the moneyed folk.
Ten long minutes later, Skye returns with our food. Freya’s nose turns up as Skye puts the plain lettuce on the table in front of her. My mouth waters when she sets the burger in front of me, as much for the glimpse I got of her cleavage as for the smell of the bacon.
“Can I get you anything else?” She asks. Yeah, your lips around my dick.
“That’s great, Skye. I think we’re good.”
Freya’s saying something, no doubt complaining about her lettuce, but I tune her out as I bite into my burger. I don’t feel the least bit guilty for ignoring her, she can fuck off while I enjoy this juicy meat in my mouth.
While I chew, the thought of taking out Skye crosses my mind. But she’s a waitress. Wh
at are the chances she wouldn’t turn into a gold digger when she found out about my money?
When I finish my burger, I lick the last bit of grease off my fingers. Freya is sitting, staring at me, her arms folded across her chest. I’d bet anything she’d spring back into fawning-all-over-me mode if I showed her the least bit of attention.
“I’ll be right back, I need the shitter.” That should shock her to her gold-digging core.
I walk in the direction I’ve been watching Skye’s ass move all night. The place is a maze of wooden booths, but I turn a corner and spot her as she moves behind a partition.
It’s a waitress station, and Skye busies herself by wrapping forks and knives in red paper napkins. She starts when I appear in her cramped station.
“Hey, Skye,” I say, propping one hand on the partition.
“Can I help you?” Her voice is sultry, and for a moment I wonder if it’s a proposition. I bet she wants to get on her knees in front of me right here.
“I just wanted a favor.”
“What’s that?” She stops her cutlery wrapping and turns to me. My eyes rake over her tight T-shirt and the swell of her tits underneath. I figure she’s early twenties, and they’re nice and perky with a good dose of cleavage on show. She probably gets the most tips in this place.
Her eyes are fixed on my arms, examining my tattoo sleeves. I wonder what she’s noticed.
“As you may have seen, my date for the night is a real piece of work. When you come back, tell her you’re sold out of fruit salad. I need to get out of here.”
She laughs, a wicked, sharp sound that bounces around our little cubby hole and lands straight on my cock. If she can make a sound like that so easily, what would she sound like when I made her come?
“She’s something else, that’s for sure. I can’t say we get people like her in here every day, or ever. This is a good, honest place for regular people to eat. We don’t get many rich bitches like her. Wealthy people have no place in here.”
“Is that so?”
Desire Page 34
