by Meghan March
It makes absolutely no sense to me. Her motive has to be money, but her actions don’t add up.
What the fuck did you do, Dad? The question has circled my brain a hundred times today, and I’m still no closer to coming up with an answer.
After another hour of attempting to be productive, I finally give up. I’m fucking useless tonight, and I recognize when it’s time to quit.
I shut down my laptop and slide it into my briefcase. Even though I won’t touch it again before morning, I won’t risk leaving it here.
That’s how much I don’t trust my own brother, especially now.
When I walk out the door of the office, all I want is oblivion for one night so I can forget about what I learned this afternoon. I want to pretend for a few more hours that everything I thought I knew about my family hasn’t shifted on its axis.
And I know exactly how I’d like to achieve that oblivion—with Whitney in my bed.
I’d give every dollar in my bank account to have her.
I laugh at the thought. Leave it to me to fall for the one woman I could never buy.
My plan to take it slow is working. Lunch was good. She gave me an ultimatum about a date, but that doesn’t mean I can rush back to her room and push her up against the wall and take her the way I need to right now.
No. I can’t do that until I win back her trust.
I’m no stranger to persistence and perseverance. She deserves both and more from me, and she’ll get them.
But that doesn’t stop me from thinking of the suite I keep on the VIP floor for my own personal use. The press may still be camped outside my gate, and I don’t want to deal with them tonight. Getting in last night was like running the gauntlet.
It’s not like Whitney needs to know that I’m sleeping in the room beside hers. I can keep myself from stopping in front of her door and begging for what I really want from her.
I do have some self-control.
Except when it comes to her . . .
29
Whitney
Karma and the girls joined us for dinner on the terrace but headed to bed shortly after, even though the girls begged for dessert and I could tell Jackie wanted them to stay. But they’re Karma’s kids, so she bit her tongue.
To be honest, I wasn’t sad to see the back of Karma because she spent half of dinner talking about how she couldn’t believe I didn’t go to my parents’ graves yesterday on the anniversary of their death. Did I feel shitty about it? Absolutely. Was there anything I could change about how yesterday went? No.
Jackie’s celebratory attitude faded as Karma hit me with jab after verbal jab, so as she left the table, I ordered two more bottles of champagne and every single dessert on the menu.
Splurging has never been the norm for me, even when I could afford it, but when it comes to making my aunt smile again tonight, I’m willing to do it.
When our majordomo knocks, I hop off the chair and head for the door. Before I can open it, a second knock comes, along with a high-pitched female voice.
“Housekeeping. You want mint for pillow?”
I know that voice instantly, even with her fake accent, and I whip open the door.
“Cricket! What are you doing here? I thought you were laying low at Hunter’s?”
She rushes in and wraps her arms around me. “And miss celebrating my mama’s new job? Hell no!”
Jackie jumps up from her seat on the terrace. “You came!”
“I’m the good kid. When Mom calls, I come running.”
Karma sticks her head out of the bedroom. “Keep it down. I have kids sleeping.”
We all roll our eyes, and Cricket flips the bird in her sister’s direction.
Thankfully, the majordomo arrives with dessert and champagne, and we close the doors to the terrace and restart our own little party.
“Hunter brought you?” Jackie asks.
“He sure did. Security is nuts here, even this late. They wouldn’t let us through the gate until Hunter showed both our IDs. Apparently, you have to be on some magic list or you’re shit out of luck.”
“Wow. That sounds crazy.”
Cricket tilts her head toward me. “The only thing that’s crazy is Lincoln—about you.”
“We’re not talking about him tonight. This is about your mama.”
“Damn right it is,” Jackie says as she spoons up a bite of crème brûlée and pops a bite in her mouth. “I’m tasting every single one of these, and I don’t give a shit if you judge me.”
Cricket points at the strawberry tart. “As long as you save a bite of that one for me, I don’t care. But first,” she grabs the neck of a champagne bottle and lifts it from the ice, “we’re cracking this baby open.”
Being Cricket, she does the only thing I would expect from her, which is shake it up.
“Cri—”
But it’s too late. The cork goes flying, and she sprays it over the edge of the balcony. I slap a hand over my mouth to quiet my scream so we don’t attract Karma’s bitchiness again.
Spray blows back on all three of us, and Jackie gasps. “Good Lord, girl. That’s freezing.”
Cricket drinks straight from the bottle. “But it tastes divine.”
I catch a glimpse of the label. “It’s like a grand a bottle, so it should.”
Cricket chokes and smacks the bottle on the marble table. “Holy shit. We’re fancy as fuck tonight.”
I grab the champagne and fill our flutes. When I finish, I lift my glass in the air. “To Aunt Jackie. The hardest-working woman I know. The best role model. The best aunt.”
“The best mom,” Cricket interjects.
I nod. “And the best woman I’ve ever met. Cheers to you.”
Tears shimmer in Jackie’s eyes. “I love you girls so much.” She holds out her arms, and Cricket and I both come toward her to be wrapped in a tight hug.
For the first time since I’ve been back in Gable, I know with one hundred percent certainty that I can’t leave like I did before and not see my family for years at a time.
Moments like this are too precious.
Cricket passes out on the couch after a call to Hunter telling him she doesn’t need a ride. I slip out of Jackie’s suite and tiptoe down the hall, a little tipsy.
As I wobble on my bare feet, I amend that thought. A lot tipsy.
When I reach the doorway to the pantry, a room filled with snacks and drinks for the use of guests, I pause. Gatorade is probably the only thing that’s going to help me avoid a champagne hangover tomorrow.
I slip inside and fumble around in the dark until I find the flavor I want in the glass-fronted cooler. With the bottle clutched to my chest, I move toward the door.
That’s when I hear footsteps coming down the marble hallway.
Shit.
The last thing I want is to run into another human being right now. I flatten my back against the wall and turn my head sideways so I can still see out the door.
It’s a man.
A tall man.
A tall man with broad shoulders.
A tall man with broad shoulders that I recognize.
Lincoln.
Even drunk, I would know him anywhere. Hell, I’d even recognize his walk. Confidence practically paves the way for each step. It’s like he’s never doubted a single thing in his entire life and can’t imagine making a misstep.
I wonder what it would be like to be that sure of yourself. I also doubt I’ll ever know, but I add it to my mental list of goals, anyway.
It doesn’t occur to me to wonder what he’s doing up here until his footsteps stop. I slide along the wall and peek out the doorway because I can’t not look.
He faces a door at the end of the hall. My door.
Lincoln came up here for me.
I wait, barely breathing, because I need to know, and I’m afraid I’ll give myself away.
Yet he doesn’t do anything but stand there and stare at my door like he’s having an internal debate.
I
know all about those internal debates. Right now, I’m trying to decide whether I can keep quiet for another minute, because part of me—a big part—wants Lincoln to know that I’m watching him. Another part of me tells the big part to shut up because I can’t be held responsible for what I would do to Lincoln if I he saw me right now. Probably climb him like a tree.
Finally, he reaches out, and my lungs freeze. He’s going to knock.
But instead of curling his hand into a fist, he touches the door with his fingertips before turning toward the door adjacent to mine at the end of the hall. He waves a key card in front of the lock and disappears inside.
That’s when it occurs to me. Lincoln went into a suite on this floor and it’s right next to mine.
As soon as his door closes, I rush down the hall to let myself into my room, and flatten my back against the door as soon as it closes. To my left in the sitting room, on the wall that separates my suite from the room he’s in, is a locked door.
A locked connecting door. To Lincoln’s suite.
I stare at it for several moments, wishing I had X-ray vision so I could see what he was doing beyond that wall.
Obviously, because that superpower eludes me, I close my eyes and use my imagination. Not so shockingly, it’s even better when lubricated by champagne.
In my mind, I watch Lincoln shrug off his suit jacket and toss it over the back of a couch just like mine. He reaches up to his tanned throat to loosen his tie.
God, ties are hot. Someday, I want to pull it free from its knot and tease him with it.
But back to my fantasy.
His capable fingers work each button free and his white shirt falls open, revealing that muscled chest and hard stomach I didn’t know he could still have ten years later. But he does. I know because I saw it. I might have been tipsy that night too, but the memory is burned into my brain for eternity.
He reaches for the button of his slacks and shucks them off. When he shoves down his boxer briefs, letting his big cock spring free, I can’t stop myself from moaning at the mental picture and move closer to the connecting door. I lean against it, picturing Lincoln fisting his cock, and I slide my hand into my shorts.
As soon as my fingertips slide across my wetness, I groan and drop my head back. When it smacks hard against the wood, I freeze.
30
Lincoln
The sound that comes from the connecting door has to be my imagination. There’s no way Whitney could know that I’m in here. Even so, I pause in the act of pouring my drink and wait for another knock. All I hear is silence.
I set the decanter down and cross the room. I feel like an idiot as I put my ear against the panel.
Nothing.
My hand drops to the lock of its own accord and I twist it. The door, meant to allow for a VIP guest to reserve two suites and maintain privacy as they move between them, glides open.
Instead of seeing her face like I hoped, all I see is the white panel of the second door.
I listen closer, and I swear I can hear her breathing. Like I did minutes ago, I reach out and press my palm to the door.
Unfortunately, the fact that I want it to open doesn’t magically make it so. I drop my hand, and my first instinct is to close the door as I back away, but I don’t. Instead, I leave it open as I walk to the bar cart and finish pouring my drink.
After the day I’ve had, there may not be enough Scotch in this hotel to stop my brain from working, but I can try.
A shot of Whitney would do a hell of a lot better.
I take the glass back to the sofa and sit, but my attention stays on the door.
Is she on the other side? Does she know that it took everything I had to stop myself from knocking?
A minute later, I hear another noise. I bolt off the sofa and step closer.
At first, it sounds like a muffled voice. After a few seconds, I realize it’s a moan.
“Whitney?” I say her name quietly, my mouth only inches away from the wood that separates us.
“I’m so close.” She whispers the words just loud enough for me to hear them. My dick jumps against the silk lining of my suit pants.
“Open the door, Blue.”
“That’s a bad idea.”
“I disagree. It’s a fucking great idea.”
She moans again, and all the blood in my head rushes south. I can picture her against the door, touching herself and writhing, and all I want is to see that firsthand.
“I just want to come . . . and then I’m going to bed.”
“Even better. Now open the door, and I’ll make that happen.”
“Still a bad idea. You won’t trust me in the morning.”
A stab of guilt catches me, and it’s one I deserve. “I promise that won’t happen again.”
Another groan filters through the door before I hear a thump.
“I want you. I do. I can’t help it. But it never ends well.”
I press my palm to the door. “Give me one more chance, and I’ll prove to you that it never has to end at all.”
31
Whitney
Lincoln’s voice, even through the wood, is way too dangerous to my composure. It’s crumbling as we speak.
Everything I want tonight is on the other side of that door. It reminds me of that saying—everything you want is on the other side of fear. I think I actually have it printed on a T-shirt.
I fear what Lincoln makes me feel. I fear how things will undoubtedly fall apart. But even more, I fear never touching him again.
“I’ll prove to you that it never has to end at all.”
I’ve always said girls like me don’t get happily-ever-afters, but my newfound positive streak shuts down the thought before it can populate in my brain. I kissed Lincoln today, and that didn’t end in disaster. I laid down my stipulations, and he respected them. I even went up against that awful bitch Maren and came out the other side with a new Riscoff ally in McKinley.
Good things are happening.
Whether it’s my outlook shifting or life finally going my way, everything seems to point in the direction of me flipping the lock, stepping beyond my fear, and taking what I want.
“Please open the door. You can slam it in my face again if you want in five minutes.” He’s not exactly begging, but I can hear the plea underlying his words.
He’s right.
I can be the one to end it whenever I want.
Something about that realization sends a wave of power through me, and I unlock the door. I step aside as it swings open, and Lincoln stands there, suit jacket missing, tie loose, and his chest rising and falling like he just climbed twenty flights of stairs.
His gaze drops to where my fingertips are still caught in the waistband of my shorts.
“Fuck. Me. You were getting yourself off.” It’s a statement, not a question.
Oh my God. “Were you picturing me . . .”
Lincoln nods slowly, and I attempt a covert glance at his crotch.
The bulge is massive.
That wave of power whooshes through me again. “Were you going to . . .” My gaze dips to the bulge as I take a step forward. “Get yourself off thinking about me?”
“Damn right.”
I take another step forward. “I want to watch you.”
He reaches out to catch the loop on my shorts. With a gentle tug, he pulls me closer to him. “Is that right?”
“I was picturing you in my head. I’d rather see it for real.”
He reaches for my hand, the one I still haven’t bothered to pull out of my shorts, and guides my fingers toward his mouth. “You were touching your sweet little pussy while you thought about me jacking off.”
Shivers ripple over my skin, and my nipples tighten into even harder buds as he sucks each digit into his mouth.
“What if I want to taste you instead?” He scrapes his teeth along the pad of my finger, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to agree to whatever he wants, but I find the strength to shake my head.
“I want to watch you first.”
His hazel gaze heats. “Then that’s what you’re going to get.”
With my hand tucked into his, he leads me toward the bedroom in a suite that’s even larger than my own. I should probably ask why he’s here, but I don’t care enough to waste the time.
“Where do you want me, Blue?”
I don’t hesitate to nod at the chaise in the bedroom. “Right there.”
My breathing picks up as his lips curve, and he backs up until he’s a foot away.
“Any other requests?”
I bite down on my lip, wondering if I really dare ask for everything I imagined in my fantasy. “Shirt and tie off. Don’t sit yet.”
My orders sound confident . . . because I feel it. Lincoln’s following my commands. I’m in control. It’s a heady feeling.
He pulls the tail of his tie free of the knot and holds it out like he’s going to drop it on the floor.
“Throw it to me.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Whatever I want.”
His gaze heats further as he tosses it toward me.
I snag the tie out of the air and wrap it around my fist. “Now, strip.”
Nostrils flaring, Lincoln undoes one button at a time, and I reach for the snap on my shorts. As he drops his shirt on the floor, I shove my shorts down my legs and kick them aside. Lincoln’s teeth graze his lower lip as he reaches for his belt.
I settle on the bed, the tie slipping from my fingers as I get comfortable.
“If you touch yourself, I’m not gonna last long.”
“You mean if I do this?” I slide my fingers into the waistband of my panties and let out a little gasp as they skim over my slickness.
“Fuck me,” he says on a groan.
I shake my head. “Not right now. I’m busy.”
Part of me can’t believe the words that are coming out of my mouth, but I feel no shame. No embarrassment. Actually, the more his control shreds, the more powerful I feel. I’m calling the shots here.
