by Jess Bentley
“You know what, King, let's do that,” I nod.
His face is twisted with sincerity. I can tell how badly he feels for me, how he would give anything to make me feel better.
“And… I think I'm falling in love with you too,” I say.
Shock spreads across his features, then happiness.
“It really took you a long time to say that,” he says quietly.
“I wanted to be sure,” I explain.
“And you are sure now?”
“You stuck by me,” I whisper, saying things I've only barely been able to admit to myself. “You reached out to me when I was unreachable. You held me when I cried and told me it would be all right until I believed you. You've chased me back and forth across the planet. If there's one person in the world who has ever really proven that what they feel about me is real, it's you, King. It really is you.”
“I'm so glad you finally noticed,” he grins, pulling me up closer to him. When his mouth covers mine, it's like I can almost taste it too. He really does love me, and loving him back was inevitable. This may be the only love I've ever known, and now it's all I want.
22
Raleigh
Jordan insisted that the other women on the streams have their identities protected, and I agreed. But when the police raided Britt’s tiny office in the back of a warehouse, I had Reggie go along and film the entire thing.
I wanted her to see that it was over. I wanted her to have proof. And it seemed only fitting that she would get to have that remote viewing pleasure with something that was so personally important to her.
When the cops burst through the door (really overplaying their hand by using one of those battering rams, but it did have a certain kind of dramatic flair, I admit) Britt’s expression was a perfect pantomime of shock and horror. She snapped her laptop closed, trying to rip the cords out of the back. Not that that would do anything, of course. She dropped her cell phone on the floor and crushed it under her heel, and that was a fruitless gesture as well.
Jordan liked the part where she was dragged out in handcuffs the best. I could see that it wasn't really in her nature to be too triumphant about someone else's bad day, but she was glad it was over. A small smile curled her lips as she watched the last few seconds over and over again, chuckling to herself. Britt mouthed the words fuck you toward Reggie's camera as the police dragged her past.
That video came up in court testimony, at least twice. Unfortunately, a lot of other video surfaced as well. Because the business had produced over $2 million in the years since Kelsey's death, the press had a field day with it.
CNN and Buzzfeed and MSNBC had reporters in the courthouse every day, trying to get Jordan's opinion on topics as wide-ranging as Internet security, international banking laws, and voyeurism as a sexual fetish.
Initially, having my face pop up on newsfeeds damaged my credibility as a businessman, but as they say, any PR is good PR. Eventually my stocks rebounded, and many of my partners started inventing ways to appear near me in the courthouse to get their millisecond of fame as well.
When it was all over, the court ordered Britt to pay compensation and restitution to Jordan in particular, totalling just over seven figures. The other girls elected to keep the business alive and running. With all the promotion, and their explicit consent, it was really a very lucrative business model.
And why shouldn't they? As a businessman, I can respect the decision to pursue any arrangement that's been mutually beneficial.
Britt, however, is also looking at jail time. Her part in the business is done. Kaput. Partly because she continued Kelsey's betrayal of Jordan, but also because interest in this case sparked the investigation into Kelsey's death. It's no longer ruled an accident. And Britt is looking at attempted homicide charges.
But Jordan doesn't talk about that. She's got enough to do with her last semester of college nearly finished. After she switched her major to business, she discovered a real passion for technology startups. I suppose no matter what she does, she'll do well. She has that sort of fire and determination I've only ever seen in one other person.
And that person is me.
When the car drops me off at the penthouse, I already feel a snap of excitement. I can see the lights are on, high above me, which means Jordan's already home from class. The elevator doors slides open and I walk in to find her standing in the middle of the floor with her hands on her hips, turning a slow circle.
“What are we doing?” I ask cautiously.
“I think we’re moving out,” she announces.
I take a beat to think. I've trained myself out of bossing her around and gotten used to some of her more interesting suggestions. If says we’re moving, we could be moving.
“I've had this penthouse for quite a while,” I remind her gently. “But I don’t mind finding something else together. Where are we moving to?”
She nods thoughtfully. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” she begins. There’s a sly glint in her eyes and I'm curious to see where she's going with this. “Since I got my bachelor’s degree and all…”
"Oh! Congratulations!” I exclaim. “Why didn't you tell me that?”
“I just did,” she says. “I mean, there's still the whole graduation and everything… But I got my last class results today. Passed the final. Aced it, as a matter of fact.”
“I'm so proud of you, sweetheart,” I sigh, fighting the urge to bend her over the dining room table and plow her immediately to celebrate. I feel like she's got more to say, so I’ll try to be patient.
“Thank you, I am proud of me also. So now I just need to figure out what I'm doing with the rest of my life, right? Should be a cinch.”
“Absolutely,” I agree.
“So, I'm thinking California,” she says with a determined angle to her jaw. “Silicon Valley is still a thing, right?”
“Yes, I have a—” I cut myself off. Who cares what I have? I'm resolved to thinking about what we have. Together. “I mean, what would you like to do there?”
“Oh, you know,” she sings-songs, swaying about the room like some kind of techno-Mary-Poppins. “Locate some resources. Identify some key partnerships.”
“You're making fun of me,” I observe.
“What? Who me?” she laughs. She sways closer to me, close enough that I can scoop her into my arms, and I know this was her plan all along. She likes to play a little bit of hard to get, but it's the getting part that she really enjoys. “But first, can we go back to Paris?”
This surprises me. “Paris? Why?”
"Well, by my count… We still have at least two flats in our names. We should start thinking about… consolidating?”
I raise my eyebrows. This is very good news. In her own way, she's acknowledging our lives have begun to overlap.
“I think a trip to Paris would be lovely,” I murmur, but I'm utterly distracted by the curve of her neck.
“I want to see the Louvre again,” she moans, gasping when I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Her lips open in a welcoming smile.
“I want you to see whatever you want to see,” I answer sincerely.
23
Jordan
Paris seems different now. I went back to my natural hair color, and I find myself greeting every stranger with some kind of challenge. I expect them to recognize me, and I expect to have the opportunity to stare them down defiantly when they do.
But somehow, the number of people who have that gleam of recognition in their face has dwindled to so few that sometimes I even forget to look for them.
I've been scrubbed from Pinterest. Our lawyers sent DMCA and cease-and-desist letters to thousands of publishers to remove both the streams and my image from screen captures. Some wicked part of me is delirious to know just how popular I became. My picture was everywhere, doing all kinds of things. There was fan fiction. There was fan art all over DeviantArt. There was even an Etsy seller who specialized in bras and panties in the styles
I wore. Honestly. Some people.
But because of the Internet's notoriously ADHD personality, they've moved on to a whole new basket of scandals and sideshow attractions. I am quickly fading into “Where is she now?” status. It's a relief, believe me.
But that means Paris is different. Instead of wondering who's going to spot me out next, I really only have to worry that they're going to miscount my change, insult me to my face, or that I'll wander into some weirdo masturbating in public. Just normal Paris stuff.
I guess we didn't have to really come here to dispatch our properties, but I wanted to do it anyway. We have people to do that, as R likes to say so frequently. I could have hired an un-designer to dismantle my flat, sell off my stuff or put it in storage, or give it away. But I wanted to do it. Putting it all together had meant a lot to me.
And surprisingly, R did the same thing. I truly didn’t expect him to, since he had picked the flat out and all its furnishings. But he said that if we wanted to have a place in Paris, he wanted it to be some place we picked out together, as well as all the stuff inside it.
It makes me happy me to know that he really has listened to me. I’m glad he sees me as an individual. He respects my decisions and doesn't just tell me what to do and when to do it anymore.
We are partners, just like he said.
But I did find a truly adorable flat in Saint Germain-des-Prés in the 6th Arrondissement. It's unbelievably expensive, of course, but we have just the best neighbors. Just the best view. Just the best of everything. It's only going to be available for a short time, and I hope he likes the idea. No matter what we do in the States, I want us always to be able to return here. Even though it stinks to high heaven a lot of the time, there’s nothing more romantic than Paris.
So it's one last business fête at the Louvre before we return to New York tomorrow, and then Los Angeles after that. I got a business to start, and I can't wait.
All heads turn toward me as I exit the limo and step onto the curb. For a moment I have that feeling of being pushed back, as though everyone looking at me has a physical force like a wave.
But they’re smiling. I feel that I should know them, so I smile back. I see a lot of the same faces from last time, faces from dinner parties we’ve had. I do not see Monsieur Maillot, and that is just great.
R turns to me just as I'm walking up to him. He steps away from the small group of fashionably-dressed business people and holds his hands out to me, cupping my elbows in his palms and drawing me up for a long, slow, probably extremely inappropriate kiss.
“What was that?" I say when he finally pulls away, slightly breathless at the attention.
“Just saying hello,” he murmurs in that rumbly, sexy voice that makes my panties damp. He presses a brief, tender kiss to my forehead.
As per protocol, we walk around the outside of the group, letting people look at us. Everyone has to see everyone, almost like a much fancier way of having a roll call. But a lot of businesses are like that: being in places where other people are. Making connections, being seen.
He draws me away from the group and into the Louvre, and slowly we meander toward a beautiful landscape, wide and serene.
“You know what that is?”
I nod. “It's a Corot. Quite a lovely one.”
He appraises it with his eyes, scowling.
“I suppose this is the good stuff, eh? What makes it good?”
“Well, it's a pretty typical French composition. There’s a foreground, and there is a far horizon. Then there's sort of a zigzag path that your eye can take so that you can always get to the horizon. It's like hope. Like, there’s always a path forward, figuratively,” I finish thinking how Madame Brevelle would be so proud of my explanation.
“A path forward… is like hope?”
“Yes…” I say slowly. Something is definitely going on here. Why is he acting like he doesn't know anything about art history? And why are all these people casually meandering into this gallery?
I turned to him curiously, but take a half step back when he drops to one knee in front of me. His eyes search mine as his hand dives into his front pocket and withdraws a small black box.
I can hardly believe what I'm seeing, but he opens the box and presents to me. The diamond glitters vivaciously inside it, seeming to send out sparks in all the colors of the rainbow.
“King!” I exclaim. “What is this… Are you—”
“Jordan Burke,” he starts formally, his voice loud and sure in the room. I feel everyone else sort of pressing closer, and I know that they’re listening to every word.
“You came into my life almost by happenstance. I was drawn to you, and I didn't know why,” he continues.
I smile, knowing that he worked on this. It's a speech, carefully crafted so only I will understand its true meaning. I feel my cheeks get hot as I think of all the effort he's put into this.
“You've changed me. You've made me want to change myself. I can only hope that one day I'll really be the man you deserve.”
I hear a collective murmur of approval and my heart flutters with joy.
“I would be so honored, Jordan Burke, if you would agree to be my wife. To spend your forever with me. Will you?”
There's only one answer I can give. The answer is yes, a million times yes. But I can't talk. I'm laughing and nodding and crying, tugging on his hand because I want him to kiss me.
“Yes!” I finally manage to say a moment before his mouth finds mine. He kisses me passionately, holding my lips between his, taking my breath away.
“She said yes!”
“Congratulations!”
“Bonne chance!”
“Congratulations to Jordan Burke and Raleigh King!”
Raleigh.
That’s his name, of course. I only realize now that I got so used to calling him “King” or “R” that the issue of his name fell by the wayside.
Raleigh. Jordan and Raleigh.
We can't get to the Town Car again fast enough. He tugs my hand as gently as he can but we’re both on a mission to get away from the crowd and back to the privacy of the chauffeured car.
The driver holds the door open and then closes it firmly behind us as we fling our bodies into the warm, welcoming space.
My dress slips effortlessly from my shoulders. I push R back onto the seat and sit astride him as he shoves his trousers down past his knees. I wait, for just a moment, wanting to savor this moment before the inevitable.
“Yes,” I say again, more gently this time. I brace my elbows on his shoulders and tangled my fingers in his hair, searching his eyes to find that spark of connection between us.
He smiles, his cheeks crinkling handsomely as he gazes up at me.
“You're going to make me the happiest man in the world, you know.”
“Oh, I know!” I purr. I decide to try it out. “Raleigh...”
Slowly, I allow him to guide me on top of him. His fingers pressed firmly into my thighs as he maneuvers his tip just to my entrance. I try to memorize the delicious sensation as I slowly drop onto him, millimeter by millimeter, feeling my body stretch to accommodate his size.
Tasting every second of this union, I draw the moment out as long as possible, watching his expression change from that smile to a peak of desire and then the pleading expression of overwhelming need.
He moans my name. As I bottom out, taking him completely inside me. I rotate my hips in a luxurious circle so he'll now just how completely I ensheath him.
The car motor rumbles, vibrating beneath us as we prowl the streets of Paris, moaning and crying out in pleasure. When we come, we come together in a thrilling explosion of combined passion.
After, I fall into his arms and watch the city lights pass by in a slow-motion smear, floating on a sea of bliss and contentment. I was lost, and I was lonely. But in Raleigh King’s embrace, I found the only true and honest love I’ve ever known.
24
HEAT - a badboy romance bonus excerpt
I take a deep breath, and unclench my fists. Looking down at the stinging in my palm, when it opens I see the deep crescent indentations of my fingernails. Since I was a little girl, that sight was more or less the definition of home.
Inside the little brick single-level cottage, behind the yellow, ratty yard, I can already hear my stepfather screaming. I’m still on the sidewalk, so chances are everyone else within a three-house radius can hear him as well. Why he was there when my mother called me, I can’t imagine.
Mom called me about a panic attack.
George is pretty much the opposite of helpful for that.
No one knows I’m here yet. I look back at the car—I could still leave. No one would know. I could just say I got busy, or that someone quit at the restaurant and I have to cover. That’s what the owner does; what I always do. They’d believe me.
But no amount of fantasizing actually will make that dream a reality. Pushing the chain-link fence gate open with a sigh, my heels tap up the cracked walkway through the dead yard and up to the screen door where I don’t bother to knock. It’s not locked.
Besides, Gloria’ll just tell George that I’m lying if I try to make something up. And George would ask. George is an asshole.
“Jesus Christ, Gina,” George is barking when I open the door to the scene. “You said you were dying! You get a little nervous on your own. Can’t you just piss in a corner like a dog instead of—what the fuck are you doing here?” He turns on me the moment I close the door.
I give George a long, flat look. It‘s better not to engage. So instead I turn my eyes more softly on Gina. “Sorry it took me so long, Mama,” I say. “You know you didn’t have to call anyone else.” I shoot George another brief, flat glare.
Gina takes my hand when I’m within arm’s reach, her pale lips widening into a wobbly smile. Her eyes are still wide, her pupils small, and it doesn’t look like she’s showered today. After almost fifteen years, George still can’t tell the difference between “nervous” and a full-blown panic attack by looking at it. The sleeve of Gina’s sweater is frayed from constant picking, which she’d have been doing for hours before the worst of it finally peaked.
