by Lexi Whitlow
"How about we talk first?" I suggest, trying to sound seductive. I don't really do seductive, but I’m trying out new material. Avery is a challenge.
She shakes her head. "I doubt I'd be able to stay awake. You should probably just go."
Our eyes meet and the look passing between us is enough to let me know that, regardless of her posturing, she wants this as much as I do. She's just a lot better than me at pretending she's not interested. So, who's going to crack? If I turn around now and walk out, will she let me go? Or will she rush after me and drag me back into her bedroom? I think she might. On the other hand, if she does that, I'm not sure I have the self-control to keep asking her questions. It's hard to think clearly with her standing beside the bed in just her lacy lingerie, staring at me with those deep blue eyes.
"I'm not leaving till you tell me what you were up to today," I say with as much stalwart determination as I can muster. It isn’t a lot.
Avery shrugs. "Suit yourself. Sleep on the couch."
"I'm not leaving this room." Good lord, why does this have to be so tedious?
Another shrug. "The chair's pretty comfortable. Or there's room in the bed." She pulls back the cover, climbs in, then scoots over to make room for me.
"You'd like that wouldn't you?" I say. I’d like that.
"I think we both would," she admits, a self-satisfied smile creasing her lips.
"Then answer my question," I insist. I really am trying to be the stronger person here.
Avery just laughs. "Take the chair. Sheets are in the closet in the hallway. At least get undressed. Sleeping in clothes is the worst."
I pull my shirt over my head, not bothering to unbutton it first. I really don't know how this is going to play out, but I can feel Avery's eyes on me. She's clearly enjoying what she sees, however much she tries to hide it. Maybe time to go on the offensive again. I take three steps closer to the bed.
"You remember what I said would happen if you didn't do as I told you?" I threaten.
Avery rolls over onto her stomach, bearing her ass to me. She's wearing thong panties. She wiggles provocatively in my direction.
"Go on then. You wouldn't be the first."
There are so many things I am aching to do to Avery right now. Stepping up, putting her across my knee and giving her a spanking she'll still feel a month from now is definitely ranking in the top three. But I can't, and I don't generally like guys who would do something like that. I stride over to the bed, grab her by the ankles and flip her onto her back. She squeals like a kitten.
"Go to bed if you're going, I'll take the couch," I growl at her. “But show some self-respect.”
With that, I march out of the room. She doesn't follow, and my whole body pounds with frustration. I pull off my pants and flop down on the couch. I don't need a sheet. I'm hot enough that the fabric beneath me might burst into flames any moment.
I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing. It's hard to think clearly while this aroused – all the blood is going somewhere other than my brain. I can't back down after having given her an ultimatum. There has to be some way I can go back in there and give us both the best night of our lives without compromising my authority. Maybe if she were to come out here then it wouldn't be quite such a capitulation.
I glance towards the door. Nothing. Of course. Avery is in the same position and is just as stubborn as I am. She threw herself at me, and I turned her down. She's not going to do it again. She's waiting for me to crack.
And so here we both lie. Both in our separate rooms, agonizingly frustrated.
What the hell for? I've wanted Avery for as long as I can remember. She's grown up into the best-looking woman I've ever seen, and she wants me. And I'm lying here on my own because of pride? Because of a business contract I signed? What the hell is wrong with me?
I rise and cross the room, grabbing the bedroom door handle and turn. It won't budge. I yank it as hard as I can and when the door releases I find Avery on the other side with the opposite handle still in her hand. We don't wait for explanations. We're in each others’ arms in an instant, and on the bed a heartbeat after that.
I've never really thought about what ‘good’ sex means. Everybody says it's best with someone you care about. My life being what it's been there's never really been anyone I care about more than the next. Romance and lasting relationships have been conspicuous by their absence. And yet I enjoy sex enough to make me think that this ‘it's better with someone you care about’ stuff is so much Harlequin Romance novel manufactured crap.
Do I actually care about Avery? It's my job to look after her, but that's not the same thing. I'm physically attracted to her but that's not unusual. I love looking at a lot of women, imagining what it would be like to fuck them. I maybe loved Avery in a naive way when we were kids, but that was a long time ago and we are different people now. She irritates and angers me frequently, and some of the wounds she inflicted when we were in school feel as fresh now as when they happened. At best, my feelings towards her are confounding. She makes my head spin. She distracts me. I forget myself when I look into her eyes. I forget everything.
When our bodies come together on top of her bed, skin on skin, something happens inside me that I’ve never experienced before. It’s not just raw heat, but unsheathed electricity passing between us. Her flesh against me sticks and burns, searing into my own, soldering us together like hot wires – fused. I press her hard into the mattress, shoving my tongue into her mouth, sucking her essence into myself like a man whose been starved. My hands fumble to release her breasts from the bonds of lace and wire, and doing so, I’m weak to my gut and down in my knees, my lips lapping at pink nipples tipping hard in response to my attention.
Avery moans, her back arching beneath me, her eyes pressed shut.
I’ve waited my whole life for this.
My tongue traces the line from between her breasts down to her navel, then lower. I smooth my hands around the fullness of her milky soft, pale hips, then slip my thumbs under the band of her lace, low-cut panties. I feel my breath catch in my chest as I slip them down over her thighs. I trace my fingers through the curls guarding her sex. Her hips rock up in response.
“You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” I murmur into her crotch before burying my face there, finding her salty lips and her hard clit with my tongue. I press fingers in, circling her wet depths while my tongue slathers her clit in attention.
“Oh...” She moans. “Oh… god...” Her hips rock into my face. I finger-fuck her gently, teasing inside her, tracing her contours, grazing her sensitive folds with the rough part of my thumb.
Her muscles tighten as I suck and lap her clit, my nose humping her pubis. I feel her vaginal walls tighten against my fingers, then grip hard.
“Oh god damn...” she whimpers, her hands falling to either side of my head as she pumps against me. She tenses up, shudders emanating from her snatch, then she just thunders hard, rocking into me like the tide coming in, whining, grinning, and then laughing.
I’ll give her something to laugh about.
Before her orgasm subsides, I haul myself up, hanging above her. With my already familiar fingers, I guide myself in, past quivering, tight muscles. I have to shove in hard to get past her body’s protestations.
“Awaah!” she cries as I punch in. It’s a cry of pleasure as much as anything else. Her legs circle my hips and she grips me hard, pulling me in with her strong, soft thighs. I thrust into her, my mind slipping away. Her tightness, the heat that envelops me, is more than can be understood or properly described. I’ve imagined what this moment with Avery might be like, and now I know that my imagination has utterly failed me. I’m wholly unprepared.
“Oh, god. Maddox. Fuck… fuck me. You feel so right.”
Her words float on the air like the bells of some cathedral singing to the faithful.
Her fingers dig into the muscle below my shoulders. Her ankles hook firm at my ass as I thrust into her, forcing
my full length past tensed muscles gripping me, shoving onto a mound that meets me with every motion.
“Oh… fuck… Oh… fuck… Oh… don’t stop… Oh god.”
Avery stops breathing. Every muscle and nerve in her body tenses. I feel her body gripping my cock, then shudder with irregular spasms. All of a sudden, a liquid explosion pours onto me, the tide of her orgasm flowing out, crashing, pounding hard as she moans, trembling beneath me. It’s the sexiest, most debilitating thing I have ever encountered or witnessed. Her eyes flutter in her skull, her hands, pressed against my back, shake.
And that is all it takes. One last shuddering ripple inside her, milking my cock, and I break, pounding hard without shifting my focus from her eyes. She meets my gaze and watches me as I cum, hauling into her, heaving my body like a jackhammer on rails. I’m pounding in, filling her up, my cock buried deep into her tender flesh before a terrified thought crosses the last remnant of coherent responsibility lurking like a demon in the back of my mind.
I haven’t used any protection at all. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
I bury my face in the nape of Avery’s neck, drinking in her scent, tasting her flesh on my flesh as I rock in again, milking the last drop of me into her.
Oh fuck.
She takes in a deep breath, then she laughs. Is she laughing at me? Was it bad?
I pull back, up to a position hovering above her. Her cheeks are pink and there is a wide smile on her face. She’s giggling – but not at me. She’s just laughing.
She grins at me between snorts of convulsive laughter. “I can’t help it,” she apologizes. “Oh, my god. It feels so good…” Her voice trails off and she laughs louder, wrapping her legs around my hips even harder.
I’ve heard about this. Never experienced it before, but whatever. If I make her laugh because I make her feel that good, so be it.
Despite all that, I have more pressing concerns. I pull out and roll over, settling in beside her, pulling her up into the crook of my arm, stroking her hair and her supple, milky white shoulder.
“We didn’t plan this very well,” I say apologetically. “I didn’t use a condom.”
Avery sighs. “It’s okay.” she says. “I’m on the shot. And I promise I’m clean. I’ve been pretty boring in the past few years.” She lifts her head and looks up at me.
“Okay,” I murmur. I tangle my fingers in her hair, like I always dreamed I would when I first met her.
“And I was planning to escape my parents. With the passport. I still am. But you’re giving me a few reasons to stick around — for now.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks for telling me. It only took sex to get it out of you.” I say it nonchalantly, but something seizes up in my gut. Anxiety. Guilt. Anticipation.
“Pillow talk,” she says, eyes drifting closed.
My principal just admitted she’s a flight risk — and I let her get to me.
I think of my mother in her retirement community, alive because of these shitty, awful people. The people who are making their own daughter prep to leave the country.
Avery curls up inside my embrace, my arms wrapping her up. She settles peacefully, and in a few moments, she drifts, sleeping sweetly. I hold her, still feeling the soldered skin, the searing heat of her body melded into my own. I can’t sleep. I hold her close, listening to her faint trailing, feeling her breast rise and fall in rhythm with my own heartbeat.
In the early morning, with thin light streaming through the blinds, I stir, finding that Avery has rolled away onto her back, purring next to me in peaceful slumber. I watch her, my head propped up on a bent elbow. Her hair is adorably mussed and a small smile paints her face. I’d like to think I put that smile there. Just looking at her I feel my cock wanting for more.
I know that if I start again now in the cold light of day, not drunk on my own desire, then that's a decision I can never undo. I can't protect her while being her lover. I’ve crossed every line there is. I have broken every rule in the book.
There's another concern lingering in my head too. I know how she treats men. I know there's a long line before me who thought they mattered. She said herself that lying was part of sex. Last night she seemed to be as invested as me.
But there’s the issue of this job. There’s my mother.
And there’s the distance between us — the years spent apart, where we both became different people.
She’s the client. And I’m the help.
I run it all over in circles in my head. Avery. Her passport. Her parents. My mom.
By the time the sun is fully risen, I’ve convinced myself that this meant nothing at all to her. It was fun. It was one time. And that was all.
Now I have to let her know that it meant equally little to me, or I lose my authority as her bodyguard. Protecting her has to come first. That’s the only reason I’m here.
I slip out of bed, gather up my scattered clothes, and I head out before she stirs.
I look at my phone before I head out. The foundation dinner is coming up in a week. And there’s no way I can continue this with Avery if I want to get her there and make this job work.
Chapter 10
Avery
Maddox Bryant is even more of an asshole than I had originally thought. And that’s saying something.
I go over the evidence, again. For the thousandth time this week.
1. He ditched me on the night of my high school graduation.
2. He took a job with my parents, who are also assholes.
3. He showed up out of the blue after seven years just to stalk me and collect a paycheck for it.
4. And finally, he gave me the best sex of my life a week ago, and now he refuses to talk to me.
I had myself convinced that last part was just fine up until tonight. He’s kept mostly to himself. I’ve stayed in my apartment, working on my dissertation. And when I’ve gone over to the beach, he’s stayed back a thousand feet at all times. That seemed okay. It seemed not hurtful. Not purposeful.
Now it’s the night of the foundation dinner, and I know he’ll be on my ass all night long. I won’t be able to avoid him. For some reason, it’s made something inside of me break open, like a flood.
I sink down onto the floor next to my bath. The hot water is still running, and I reach up and turn it off.
I scroll through my phone and read the text again.
And then again.
Then I type out another text to Maddox and delete it. Then I do the same again. He’ll be here any minute.
I check the time.
We’ll be late, and he’ll be in here, yelling at me. I’ll have to hear his voice.
And that will make me look at my texts again. And write another one. And delete it again.
Who goes into the bathroom to take a shower and takes their phone with them? A pathetic, attention seeking, child, that’s who.
Christ, what am I doing? Am I really this needy?
I look back at that first text. The one from the morning after.
Maddox Bryant: I’m sorry. It should not have happened. I was unprofessional. It can’t happen again.
I woke up that morning, expecting to find him lying beside me, right where we fell asleep, him cradling me in his arms. But he was gone without a word, disappeared.
I tried calling him. I texted him. And that text is what I got in response — the ultimate, callous blow-off. I want to be angry, but all I am is hurt. The hurt aches in my body like somebody cut out my heart with a dull blade.
It changed something in me — this whole thing. It killed my anger, my impulsive rage. And it just made me sad.
The worst part about this whole catastrophe is that no matter how hurt I feel, I still have to put on my fake happy face and go out into the world. I have to smile for the cameras that appear more and more frequently everywhere I go. I have to show up and play the part of the dutiful daughter in support of my mother’s campaign for the Senate. And I have to see Maddox every single damn day. He’s my body
guard. He won’t look me in the eye and he tries hard not to be alone with me for any length of time, but he’s still very present. And that presence is almost killing me.
I look down at the next text, sent in response to my demand for an explanation for his stonewall treatment.
Maddox Bryant: Please don’t send me anymore texts. Please don’t call my personal line. Give this up. I want to keep this job. Please don’t make it hard on me.
How the hell am I making it hard on him? He’s the one who’s treating me like I’m contagious.
That text was sent five days ago. Tonight I’m sitting here looking at his last text, sent only yesterday, begging him to just talk to me. The water is running in the shower behind me and the room is filled with steam. Maddox is waiting for me and has been for thirty minutes. We’re due in the city in less than an hour, but I can’t make myself move. I don’t want to go to another horrible fundraiser for my mother’s charity foundation. I don’t want to have to smile, and tell lies, and watch everyone fawn over ‘Evie’ like sinners seeking indulgences. Her pretense to philanthropy and this charity fundraiser tonight is just another route into the pockets of potential campaign contributors.
Maddox Bryant: Avery. Please. Stop. I’m only human. You’re killing me. I can’t run away anymore. I need this job.
All he cares about is his job. My entire life is slipping out of my hands, and he’s worried about his stupid muscle job. That’s all he is to my mother – the help. He knows that and still… What a coward. I fucking hate him.
As if on cue, I hear the door to my apartment open, and suddenly, Maddox Bryant is physically closer to me than he has been in a solid week. His voice booms across the apartment, and heavy footfalls head toward the bathroom. He slams his hand down against the solid wood door.
“Avery. You need to hurry up. We’re already late.”
There’s a brittle edge to his voice.
“I’m not going,” I say. My voice is hoarse, and I hope he doesn’t realize it’s from my crying. That would ruin my carefree, party girl reputation. Hell, he’s ruining that shit singlehandedly.
