Beast

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  He leans back, stretching his long legs under the table and throwing his arm across the back of the seat beside him. “He’s clean.”

  My eyebrows pinch as my insides constrict tight. “He’s clean?”

  Shadow just shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He’s clean. No shady sources of campaign financing. No jilted ex-business partners. No drunken, wild nights during college. The guy is as strait-laced as they come.”

  I growl, disappointment skittering down my spine. This isn’t the news I was hoping for. I’d wanted Shadow to come back to me with a dossier full of Chester Davidson’s sins. I’d wanted Shadow to tell me that the Pretty Boy Politician is the scum of the earth, that he’s a piece of shit criminal, swindling son-of-a-bitch.

  And then I’d be justified in swooping in and rescuing Jasmine from him.

  But he’s clean. He’s a good guy. Jasmine doesn’t need my saving.

  Shadow’s dark eyes observe me. It makes me uncomfortable, the weight of his stare on me. “What?” I grunt.

  He taps the bottom of his beer bottle against the table between us, a contemplative expression on his face. “You didn’t exactly give me a lot of detail to go on, Cartwright. What kind of dirt am I looking for? What do you plan on using it for?”

  There’s no way I’m about to admit to him that I’m doing all this because a woman stole my barb-wired heart and I’m in hell every time I see her in Davidson’s arms. So, I say, “I need something personal on him. I need to know about his personal life. There’s got to be something there.”

  Shadow nods curtly, giving me a small salute. “Yes sir.” He slides the empty bottle across the table and stands. “Don’t contact me. I’ll contact you when I have something.”

  Chapter 34

  I waited until she was leaving her office just after 9 p.m. She was dressed in spandex leggings with a band of hot pink fabric hugging her gorgeous tits and leaving a strip of tight, bare stomach visible under her half-zipped windbreaker jacket. She had her gym bag slung over her shoulder as I approached her in the hallway, pretending that I was on my way out the door as well.

  We talked for a while. I asked her about the cases she’s working on and she raved about the tuna club sandwich we’d shared at lunchtime. Then, she mentioned having to go to the gym but not being in the mood. That’s when I suggested that she come jogging along the riverbank with me.

  “You run like a girl,” Jasmine shouts at me over her shoulder as she leans forward and braces her knees, breathing hard and fast out of her mouth.

  The sight of her like that – sweaty and flushed, bent over in her skintight workout gear – has my mind wandering into inappropriate territory. I slow to a halt and quickly adjust the erection tenting my jogging shorts right before she straightens up and turns to face me.

  “I was just trying to go easy on you,” I say tauntingly as I brush drops of sweat off of my forehead.

  We’d stopped by my loft first. I’d changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt and she’d left her gym bag sitting at the foot of my bed. Then, we’d jogged from my apartment at Battery Park all the way to the West Village before turning around and running back. The jog had been easy enough for me since I run this path every day but poor Jasmine had pushed hard, struggling not just to keep up with me, but to stay a step ahead. She’s got a competitive streak and it’s seriously hot.

  She reaches out and grabs my shoulder for support as we trudge back to my loft. I like the feel of her hand on me. I push open the door and she walks inside first, kicking off her shoes by the door and collapsing on the carpeted flooring of the living area.

  “You’re gonna need to warm down,” I warn her. She isn’t used to running like this. If she doesn’t take the time to stretch out her body, tomorrow she’ll be paying the price.

  “I’m dying,” she grunts. “My calf muscles are screaming at me.”

  I kick off my shoes and sit next to her. “I’m telling you – warm your muscles down.”

  “Argh…Gimme a second,” she moans sprawled off on the floor.

  She looks so fucking amazing. Man – I just want to kiss her, climb on top of her and sink deep inside. I’m a lunatic for thinking that I could just be friends with a woman like this. Especially since I’ve already had a taste of her and I know how good it feels to be buried balls-deep in her while she moans my name.

  She rolls over onto her side and slowly rises to her feet. She slogs to the kitchenette and complaining about her sore muscles as she throws open the fridge. I’m not used to having people in my personal space, touching what’s mine, but she’s comfortable here. I love watching her move about in my home. It feels like she belongs here. Plus, watching the expression on her face as she surveys the barren shelves of my refrigerator entertains me.

  She reaches for a box of orange juice and flips it around. She reads the expiry date out loud and shudders.

  “I can order a pizza,” I offer as I rise off of the floor and go over to lean on the counter opposite the fridge. It’s already midnight but in New York City, I can get just about anything delivered at any hour.

  She spins around and gives me a pointed look. “Pizza? You’re kidding, right? I just ran a thousand miles and there’s no way I’m gonna sabotage all that hard work by eating pizza right now.”

  “Had to offer…” I just shrug and watch as she picks a half-empty bottle of strawberry jam out of the fridge. She checks the expiry date and seems satisfied with it.

  “So hungry…” she mutters as she grabs a spoon from the utensil drawer and hops up onto the counter next to me. She pops the lid off and digs in with the spoon. “Mmm,” she cries as her eyes flicker shut and she sucks hard on the spoon, kicking her feet in front of her.

  And now I’m imagining that the spoon is my cock and that her lips are wrapped around it. Shit.

  I shift away from her, adjusting my erection yet again.

  She doesn’t seem to notice. She’s bewitched by the jam. “You really should do some groceries,” she says when her eyes finally slide open.

  “I don’t know how to cook,” I say, my gaze fixed on her mouth as she slides her tongue over the corner of her bottom lip to lap up a trace of jam.

  “I’ll cook for you,” she offers casually as she hops off of the counter, tosses the empty bottle into the trash and puts the spoon in the dishwasher. “I’m not great in the kitchen but I’m obsessed with the Food Network so I can figure something out.”

  My stomach swirls at the idea of this woman serving me a home-cooked meal wearing nothing but an apron and a grin.

  I swallow back the image. “Sounds good.”

  She smiles at me as she brushes past me, towards the bathroom. She really knows her way around this place. I like that.

  “Can I borrow a towel?” she asks. “I forgot to throw one in my gym bag.”

  “Sure,” I say as I pad over to the hallway closet and grab her a fluffy green towel.

  She’s already in the bathroom with the door closed when she opens it a crack and says, “I’m taking a quick shower. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” I say, forcing myself not to imagine her naked, lathering up with my soap bar and using my shampoo to wash her hair.

  I sit on the couch trying to distract myself from the thought of the water spraying her body, riveting down her skin. I want the woman so bad. I want her to be mine. But I’ve got to settle for her friendship because I’m ugly and twisted. Inside and outside. My love would ruin her.

  The war is over. There are no bombs falling around me and no mangled bodies lying in the streets but everyday, there’s a battle in my head and nobody knows it but me.

  I am a prisoner of war.

  I can’t hold her captive with me.

  I hear the water shut off and Jasmine emerges from the bathroom wrapped in the bath towel, her dark hair falling long and damp down her sculpted back. “Sorry, I forgot to take my gym bag with me,” she mumbles as she snatches the bag off of the floor and hurries back into the bathr
oom.

  And that moment right there – seeing her soft and wet and vulnerable – it put ideas in my head. Maybe there’s a way for me to be good enough for her. Maybe I can go to more therapy sessions, have Dr. Andrews change my pills, get a few more rounds of reconstructive surgery to make my scars less visible…Maybe I can make this girl mine.

  But that’s just crazy talk. False hope. You can’t stick enough band-aids on me to make me whole again, to make me the man that Jasmine Santiago needs.

  She comes out of the bathroom dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt and black leggings. Her hair is piled into a messy knot on her head. She drops onto the couch and blocks a yawn with her tiny palm.

  She looks so fucking cute. How do I keep from telling her that?

  “I’m gonna jump in the shower,” I say as her new smell fills my lungs. I’m gonna need a long, cold rinse to tame this wayward hard-on.

  I stay in the bathroom for a really long time, trying to wash my feelings for her down the drain, trying to remind myself that friendship is all I can give her. I step out of the bathroom but she isn’t where I left her on the couch.

  Instead, she’s in my bed, curled up under my sheets, hugging my pillow as she sleeps.

  She looks perfect in my bed. Like she belongs there.

  I sit on the floor, leaning against the wall directly in front of the bed. I watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling with her breath. “Oh Jasmine. My beautiful, beautiful Jasmine. I wish that things could be different,” I whisper into the air.

  And as much as I’m tempted to crawl in bedside her and mold my large, hulking frame to her shapely, feminine curves, I slink over to the couch and stare up at the ceiling until the sound of her breathing lulls me to sleep.

  Chapter 35

  I spent most of the day on a videoconference trying to negotiate a solar energy deal with a large industrial conglomerate on behalf of one of my clients. I’ve got to admit that my client was being unreasonable. I tried to convince him to adjust his demands. When that didn’t work, I tried to convince the other side to give him what he wants. Both angles failed miserably.

  I glance at the clock. 5:46. I sigh. I’ll have to pick this up tomorrow. I won’t be working late tonight.

  When Liam and I had lunch together earlier, I promised that I’d cook for him tonight. It’s the least I can do. After all, he’s been buying me lunch every day for over a month now. I’m well fed, my food is delivered right to my desk and since I don’t pay for the meals, I ended up with a bit more pocket change at the end of the month. So, I plan to impress the socks off of Liam tonight.

  I’m really excited to hang out with him. Chess was in town yesterday and we went to dinner at one of those high-end, up-tight restaurants that serve famine-sized portions at exorbitant prices. So, I’m really looking forward to just letting down my hair, hanging out and eating till I’m stuffed tonight.

  After I swing by the grocery store to pick up the ingredients I’ll need, I have some time to spare. So I go home, take a quick shower and rummage through my closet for something to wear. I end up slipping into a turquoise summer dress with a fitted, scoop-necked bodice and a knee-length, flared skirt. It’s been sitting in the back of my closet with the tags still on, waiting for a special occasion. The nagging voice in the back of my head asks why the hell I’m wearing such a fancy dress to go cook dinner for someone who’s just a friend. I rationalize it by telling myself that summer is quickly coming to an end and I probably won’t have another opportunity to wear it so I might as well wear it tonight.

  Arrive at Liam’s loft just before 7:30 p.m. He sits on a stool in the kitchenette and watches as set up a cooking video on his laptop. The video guides me along as I prepare salmon and herbed potatoes before slathering it in tzatziki sauce. I wait expectantly as he takes his first bite.

  “You like?” I ask cautiously.

  He chews slowly, eyes fluttering shut. Then, he swallows with a low groan.

  And then…he smiles. God – he should do that more often.

  I have to bite down on my bottom lip to keep from pouncing on him just to get a taste of that wicked, beautiful mouth.

  “It’s amazing, Jasmine.” His eyes are locked on mine. “Delicious.”

  I release a sigh of relief. “Thank god. You had me worried for a second.”

  We drink wine as we devour the meal, talking and laughing through our first serving and then, through our second.

  When we’re finished eating and tidying the kitchen, I waddle over to Liam’s bed and collapse onto the mattress. He stands by the stove and watches me pull the sheets over my body. He moves across the room, carefully sitting on the edge of the couch.

  There’s something feral about the way he looks at me.

  And instead of retreating, backing away, I invite him closer. “Come,” I say reaching a hand out to him. When he moves towards me, I pat the spot on the mattress next to me.

  I’m playing with fire.

  This man has made it clear that he wants nothing more than my friendship, yet I keep stubbornly pushing forward, openly accepting his friendship but secretly wishing for more.

  His gaze is careful as he looks at me, studies me.

  “Wanna go for a run tonight?” he asks as he plops down at the foot of the bed.

  My laugh is dry and mirthless. “Yeah right – my entire body is sore from our run yesterday. There’s no way I’m subjecting myself to that again so soon.”

  He chuckles, sliding his hand under the covers and tickling the bottom of my foot. My skin lights up at the sensation. I pull away, giggling. “Oh, so that explains why you were limping around the office all day.”

  I feel my cheeks heat up. “I was not limping around the office today.” I pick up a pillow and toss it in his direction.

  He expertly swats it out of the way. “You were totally limping.”

  I exaggerate a pout as I prop myself on my elbows and face him head-on. “You’re being mean.”

  A contented grin settles on his lips. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to poke at you.”

  I sigh, dropping my head onto the pillow. “We should go to a movie. Catch a late show.” I look at him expectantly.

  Hesitation cloaks his eyes. “I – I –” His fingers dart to the wounds hiding under his beard. He won’t go because he doesn’t want to be seen, exposed to the public’s harsh, judgmental stares.

  I reach up and pull his hand from his face. “Your whole life revolves around those scars…They don’t make you any less of a man, y’know…In fact, they’re proof that you’re more than a man. You’re a hero. You’re a giant…”

  Something in him loosens, unwinds. His fingers slip between mine and his grip tightens. We stare at each other for a long moment. A red-hot ribbon of desire knots in my stomach. Arrows of arousal dart to my core. I lick my parched bottom lip. Liam swallows thickly, his eyes following the trajectory of my tongue.

  “What?” I whisper hoarsely.

  He shakes his head, turning away and letting go of my hand. “It’s…nothing.”

  He slides back the bedcovers and takes my foot into his lap. Without a word, he presses his thumbs into the sole of my foot, rubbing the tension away. It hurts, but it’s a good ache, a delicious ache. We’re just friends. Just friends. I repeat the mantra to myself. But I can’t imagine ever rubbing Ruthie’s or Nadia’s feet like this.

  Just friends? Really?

  He rubs and kneads and works magic with his big, strong hands. Warmth races up my thighs and settles between my legs. I pant softly as my panties grow wet. I close my eyes and lean into the pillow behind my head.

  “Does it feel good?” His voice is gravely and thick.

  I nod “yes” without opening my eyes.

  He eases the covers all the way off and his hands move up past my ankle. I open my eyes and my gaze falls on his lap. I see his cock straining against the fabric of his jogging shorts. I moan softly growing even wetter.

  “I think about you, Jasmine,” he mutters q
uietly into the air. “When you’re not here, on the nights when you’re with him, I lie in this bed and I think about you.” My chest goes tight and my throat feels a little dry. I know it’s a small offering, but coming from Liam Cartwright, it’s monumental.

  “I think about you, too,” I whisper back. “All the time.”

  Our eyes lock. We’re having a silent conversation. He’s asking how far I’ll let him go. I’m asking what would ever make him stop. He rubs the muscles of my calf. Inching higher, higher, higher. He moves past my knee, still kneading and massaging my flesh. I don’t stop him. Instead, I spread my legs wider, teasing him, challenging him to touch me there and not feel what I feel.