by Cora Kenborn
She wants to study me? I’ll give her plenty to analyze later on. I have seven years of pent up lust for her ready to explode. Maybe one night with her will quiet the noises in my head and I’ll be able to think with my brain instead of my dick.
With my hands still on her hips, I pull her against me and crush our lips together. As our mouths fuse and our tongues battle for dominance, I know I’m fucked.
So fucking fucked.
All I taste is rain and sunshine. How the hell does one woman taste like rays of goddamn sunshine? If her mouth is this bright and warm, I’m almost coming in my pants thinking about what the rest will taste like. Fucking rainbows? What else is left?
“Cary.” She pulls back, the lines around her eyes filled with worry. “Please don’t hurt me. I can’t take it. Not from you.”
And this is where the world-famous model seals her fate. As easy as that, she’s handed me the keys to her destruction. Mine for the taking.
“Off.” Gathering the bottom of her tank top, I pull it over her head. “I’m not going to hurt you. Unless you want me to,” I add with a wicked grin.
I can’t get her bra off fast enough. I’ve become somewhat of a pro, but this one is obviously expensive with a hook in the front and reinforced buckle that I swear to shit I’m about to chew off. Shiloh tosses me a seductive little grin and with one flick of the wrist, has it unhooked and open.
God bless Victoria’s Secret.
Flipping us around, I press her back against the leather, and her neck drops back, disappearing over the edge of the couch as I roll the tip of my tongue over a nipple. Shiloh shudders, making me smile as I close my lips around it and suck it deep into the heat of my mouth.
“Cary…” A moan rumbles in her throat as her fingers weave through my hair. She wants me, but I have to make her say it.
“What do you want, Shiloh?”
“You.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Fuck me,” she pants.
“Not yet.”
Shiloh’s flushed head pops up, her eyebrows drawn together. “What the hell? Cary, I just told you to fuck me. How much clearer can that be?”
“You want clear?” I say, wrapping my hand around her jaw. “Fine, how’s this? I plan to spend so much time between your legs that you’ll forget about every man you’ve ever known—even Will.”
At the mention of my best friend’s name, Shiloh stiffens and jerks my hand away from her face. I know I should say something, but all I can do is stare as she slides out from under me and sits on the edge of the couch with her arms wrapped around her waist.
“You say you’ve changed, but you’re still lying.”
“How the hell do you figure that?” I yell.
She turns a cold eye my way as if she sees through me. “This is still about punishing me.”
Twenty-Two
Shiloh
My body is desperate, screaming at my conscience to just accept this for what it is—hot, meaningless sex. The old Shiloh would’ve told my newfound morality to haul its ass back into the hole it crawled out of and shut the hell up. However, the new Shiloh, who has lost her job, her best friend, her home, and her freedom, suddenly finds herself in unfamiliar waters too deep to navigate. Too deep to give my body to a man who only wants it because he assumes I’m already giving it to his best friend.
I’m in a no-win situation. As much as I ache for him, I refuse to be a ring in his alpha dick toss game.
Cary’s blue eyes darken as I move my hands from my waist and lock them over my exposed chest. Being halfway naked makes me feel vulnerable. Vulnerability makes you weak, and no one survives in this world being weak.
“Want to tell me what just happened?” He sits beside me, making sure to keep a safe distance between us.
No. I don’t. I want to crawl under my disgusting princess blanket and dream this whole night away. I want to go back to the first few days where Cary barely spoke to me. Now all he does is talk, and it’s starting to break me.
Bowing my head, I rub my temples with the pads of my thumbs. “You seriously think I’m sleeping with Will?”
“Don’t hand me that shit, Shiloh. I see the way you two look at each other. Do you think I’m blind?”
“No, I think you’re a moron.”
“You’re way too friendly.” His words clip through his gritted teeth.
“Really? That’s funny, because friendly isn’t a word I’ve ever heard you pair with my name.” I smirk a little as his nostrils flare. “Besides, he’s a nice guy, and the last time I checked, who I fuck isn’t any of your business.”
That’s probably a little out of line, but I refuse to sit in my own home while he dictates who I see in my own free time. Not that I’m even interested in Will, but I’m also not interested in self-righteous assholes.
“So you admit it!” Cary leaps to his feet and stares at me with bloodshot eyes, pulling the ends of his hair until I’m sure he’s going to rip it out.
I’m on my feet just as fast, a severe lack of judgment clouding my ability to think rationally. “What? No! God, Cary, what the hell is it with you? You treat me like garbage one minute, then the next you act like I’m your property. Might I remind you that you’re still fucking Taryn?”
“Was fucking Taryn. And so what? Fucking is fucking, Shiloh. It meant nothing.”
“Does she know that?”
“Taryn believes what she wants to believe. That’s her problem, not mine.”
“Do you realize what a huge dick you sound like? Are you saying you’ve changed so much in seven years that you fuck for sport now? Emotion and heartbreak are just casualties of your sick game?”
“Why so shocked? Whose pink playbook do you think I learned it from, Shallow?”
“Get out! Get out of my house!” So many emotions roll through me at once, I’m not sure which one is the strongest. Anger. Pain. Hurt. Embarrassment. Regret. Shame. Pity. All of them spark like lightning through my fingers, and Cary’s face contorts as I shove him toward the front door.
“Shiloh…”
“Get out!” I scream again. I’m only seconds away from a breakdown, and I’ll be damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction of watching it happen.
I’m so stupid. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of what life could be like starting over. No cameras. No limelight. No constant demands.
Just simplicity.
But that’s not the way God planned life out for me. Oh, who am I kidding. God has nothing to do with it. I sold my soul to Satan a long time ago, and he’s corrupted it with evil and darkness—which is exactly what I deserve.
Salvation is everlasting. Penance is never-ending.
As Cary stumbles onto the porch, I reach for the door to slam it when his phone chimes. It’s Taryn. I know that chime. It’s some Taylor Swift song, and I know she programmed it herself into his phone. No one else on earth would pick something so obnoxious.
So, instead of granting myself the Oscar-worthy door slam I’d planned on, I hover over the entryway and wait. Cary curses under his breath and pulls his phone from his back pocket. I watch his eyes as they scan the message, noticing how they narrow with every line and how his lip curls into a dangerous snarl.
“Everything okay?”
Somewhere between accusing me of fucking Will and reading Taryn’s text, Cary’s expression turns lethal. I’ve never seen this side of him, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I step behind the door, unable to rationalize that the man who touched me with such passion is the same one who now seems capable of unspeakable things.
“I’ll text Malcolm. He’ll take you home,” I say, pushing the door closed, but I’m not fast enough. With less than two inches to spare, Cary catches it with his fingers and wedges it back open. His eyes are still black, and his chiseled features are hard as stone. However, it’s the way the corners of his mouth turn down when he speaks that makes me question everything.
Him. Me. Us.
That text.
“You’re right, Shiloh. Feelings mean nothing to me, and no, everything is not okay. They haven’t been for a long time.” Scrubbing his turned cheek down the molding of the doorframe, he lets out a frustrated sigh. “I may fuck for sport, but I don’t play games with players who make up their own rules. You haven’t changed a damn bit.”
I don’t have to slam the door in his face. Grabbing the doorknob, he closes it himself, ending the rest of our conversation. His words sink in, icing my blood. Turning around, I press my back against the door and slide slowly to the floor until I collapse in tears and confusion.
Bianca won’t be home for hours, so I sit and bang the back of my head against the door, as if it’ll somehow jar me out of the nightmare I can’t seem to wake up from.
I can’t last three years. I want to go home.
Now.
Twenty-Three
Cary
TARYN: Ice skating? How does taking Shiloh ice skating make her look bad? I’m starting to wonder if you’re having second thoughts about our deal. Trust me, if you choose the wrong side, Cary, Shiloh isn’t the only one who’ll go down.
Sitting at my desk the next morning, I stare at Taryn’s text from last night and scan the last line again. Her veiled threat sparks an unfamiliar protectiveness in my chest.
…if you choose the wrong side, Cary, Shiloh isn’t the only one who’ll go down.
The more I stare, the more my eyes burn. Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I throw the phone across my desk and drop my head into my hands. How the hell has everything blown up in my face? Shiloh’s sentence here was supposed to be cut and dry. I was supposed to play with her emotions for my own amusement and watch her break down until she self-destructs.
How fucking hard is that?
I prepared for the Shiloh who has lived in my memory for seven years. The Shiloh who stared right into my eyes and smiled with the innocence of a demon in a lamb’s skin. Only that’s not who walked in the door. The last month has shown me something in her I never expected to see.
Regret.
What I have to do is easier said than done. I have to figure out what Taryn’s up to and shield Shiloh from it while protecting my center and my family at the same time. If I make the wrong move, I’m done.
I reach for my phone again and type a response, dropping the first bomb of a battle I’m not sure I’m prepared to fight. Taryn’s retaliation will be deadly, and she’ll make sure I never see it coming. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve drawn the line in the sand and declared war.
ME: It’s none of your damn business what I do. I’ve grown up and so should you. The past is in the past. Leave it there and move on.
My phone pings back almost immediately.
TARYN: You think you can just break up with me and that’s that? Fuck you, Cary. My family owns yours. My uncle is a health inspector. You’re due for a visit, right? Maybe you should reconsider. Tick tock.
“Fuck!” Slamming the phone down, I pound my fist into the wood. I’m backed into a corner. It’s not just me or my family I have to worry about. Somehow my priority has shifted. I’m now keeping the woman who destroyed me from getting destroyed by someone else so I can destroy her myself.
How fucked up is that?
She’s my ghost. She haunts my past and possesses my mind. I can’t exorcise her from my thoughts, and now, I’m not sure I even want to. I want to take her then I want to break her. I want to save her then I want to destroy her. The two extremes I’m fighting in my own head are slowly driving me insane. All I know is that every moment I’m with her, the need to hurt her gets weaker.
What the hell are we even doing?
Maybe there’s too much bad blood between us to even consider mending fences. My mom always says that some people can stay in your heart but not in your life. Maybe that’s Shiloh and me. Even after what she did to me, I don’t think I ever truly stopped loving her.
Maybe that’s the reason I hate her the most. Not because of what she did, but after the dust settled, I still couldn’t let her go.
I drop my head in my hands to stop it from spinning out of control when I hear footsteps approach and stop in front of me.
“Don’t you ever knock?” I growl.
Frankie grins and takes a seat in one of the two chairs in front of my desk. “You always say you have an open door policy.”
“That only applies when the damn door is open, smartass.”
“You’re kinda pissed off today for a guy who hit the jackpot last night. Know what I’m sayin’,” he adds with a wink.
“I have no fucking clue what you’re saying.” Actually, I know exactly what he’s saying, but I have no intention of discussing it with him. However, Frankie has that look in his eye—the one that tells me he’s not leaving without the story he came for.
Too bad he has a record. The fucker would be a hell of an FBI interrogator.
“You never called us to come pick you up last night. I know because we dropped your car off at your house.” Leaning back in his chair, he kicks his feet up on the edge of my desk and smirks. “That means your drunk ass stayed all night. So, don’t keep that shit to yourself, man. Was it as good as we imagine when we…you know…” I glance up just in time to see Frankie pumping his fist.
“Jesus, nothing happened. We worked some shit out, and her driver took me home. End of story.” Before he can open his mouth, I knock his feet to the floor. “And get your shoes off my desk.”
“Right,” he says, drawing out the word with a grin. “That’s why neither of you can look any of us in the face today.”
“She’s here?”
He shuffles a stack of papers in his lap, and I want to smack the smug look off his face. “Huh, you perked right up on that one. Lookin’ for a little mornin’ after repeat?”
“Shut up, Frankie. What’s she doing?”
“Scrubbin’ the grout in the locker room like you commanded her to do last week. You know, with a toothbrush?” He raises his eyebrows like I’m the biggest asshole alive.
Which I am.
“Shit!” I’m out of my chair and halfway across the room before I see her standing in the open doorway. Her hair is pushed over her left cheek as usual, only this time she’s wearing a dark blue scarf tied around her head to keep it in place. I’m frozen, unable to move forward or sit back down because I can’t stop staring at her.
Since the first day Shiloh walked into the community center, whether she was scrubbing toilets or washing windows, she’s worn designer clothes and the highest heels imaginable. Today, she’s wearing jean shorts she obviously created herself, a blue and yellow Coastal Shores High t-shirt, and a pair of bright yellow flip flops that had to have come from the beach store on the corner. I have no idea if I want to laugh at her or kiss her.
She looks ridiculous, but none of those magazine covers can hold a candle to the woman standing in front of me right now. Because this is the real Shiloh.
“You’re staring.” Her fingers tighten around the doorframe.
“You look different.”
Her chin lowers and she takes in her tattered clothing. “I didn’t want to ruin my clothes. I brought a bag. As soon as I’m finished, I’ll change…”
“Don’t,” I interrupt. She jumps, so I soften my tone. “I mean, you don’t have to, I think you look fine.”
“Like this?” She looks shocked that I’d find her attractive in such rags. Yeah, right. If I tell her what’s in my head right now, that Bambi look would darken in two seconds flat.
“Yeah,” I say with a half smile. “Take a day off from the runway. Might be fun to see how the other half lives.”
Frankie’s eyes bounce between us before he slides out of his chair and drops the stack of papers on my desk. “Here are the flyers for the Rugged Maniac Race. I’ll leave you two alone to do whatever it is that you two do.” Walking out with his usual swagger, he stops beside Shiloh and scans her outfit. Grinning, he gives the end of her bandana a playful tug. “C
areful, Snowflake. You just might fuck around and become one of us.”
Once Frankie’s gone, my mind races, trying to find a way to apologize for last night while my dick hardens, telling my mind to stop being a little bitch and throw her across the desk.
See how men’s minds work? It’s a constant battle between conscience and cock. It’s a crapshoot as to which one usually wins. It depends on the situation, the woman, and how long it’s been since the man has gotten laid.
Right now, all three are working against me.
I try to fight it, but the memory of her writhing on that damn white leather couch causes all rational thought to exit the building.
Cock – 1. Conscience – 0.
Just as I lunge for her, her mouth rounds into that perfect little O and she circles around me, bending over my desk on her own. I stare at her round ass for a moment, stunned. It’s not the way I envisioned it in my head, but fuck it. This works too.
I crowd in behind her, laying a hand on her hip just as she grabs one of the flyers Frankie left and spins around to face me. I’m a little confused and a lot disappointed when she shoves the paper in my face and shakes it.
“Rugged Maniac Obstacle Race? There’s an Iron Man cancer race on Saturday? Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “It’s not an Iron Man. It’s just a 5k mud run with climbing and tunnels and shit. Besides, why would I tell you?”
She places a hand on my arm. When I just stare at it, she removes it and clears her throat. “Because I want to be there. You brought this race here for Ellie?”
“You, belly crawling in an underground mud tunnel?” I snort, ignoring her question. “Yeah, right.”
“But it’s for Ellie, isn’t it?”
“Shiloh, I’ve been hosting this race in Ellie’s name for five years. Ever since I got out of…” It’s pointless to have this conversation right now, so I gather the rest of the flyers and drop them in a bin by the window. “Anyway, it’s not anything anyone who cared about her doesn’t already know about.”
