Ruthless (Playboys in Love)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  Second, and more importantly, she lied to me. I’d asked her who it was, pretending I hadn’t seen Austin’s name already. I told myself there was a reasonable and appropriate explanation. All I had to do was ask and she’d give it to me. Not all lawyers have the best morals, but Addison and I are both firm believers in being honest in all we say and do. At our cores, we feel that truth always prevails, which is why we pursued careers in law to begin with.

  And yet she stared right into my eyes and lied.

  Even so, I’d stuffed the doubt to the back of my mind. I came up with reasons why the settings on her phone might be changed—everything from a glitch with an update all the way to maybe she’d caught Martin or someone else in the office looking at her screen and wanted more privacy—and felt more the fool for doing it. Especially now.

  But the text and phone settings are moot points, because the truth of the situation is staring at me from the screen of my phone. Another text comes through from Cooper, this time a video. I want to watch it as much as I want to drop my phone into my water glass and walk away. But of course, I watch it.

  Austin must be rocking his Southern charm act. Her smile is radiant, and she’s laughing at whatever he’s telling her. Every so often her eyes and mouth open wide in surprise before she goes back to being happy. As if all that isn’t bad enough, now he places a hand on her arm and says something with an expression of sincerity…and she blushes. Fucking blushes. Just like when I whisper nasty things in her ear while we’re in public, or I undress her with my eyes during a meeting at work.

  This is a double betrayal, and I’m not sure which is worse. The one from a man who’s been my best friend from the time we were fifteen, or from the woman I fell in love with, who I thought might love me, too.

  I’m so lost in thought I don’t realize my dad is back until he’s taking his seat. “You should quit your side job,” he says, picking up his fork to dig into the cake. “Then you wouldn’t have to turn down the more decadent things in life at the risk of going soft in the middle.”

  If he only knew how soft I’d gotten. I’d let Addison soften my heart. So much that it didn’t even put up a fight when she ripped it from my chest.

  “Dad, I have to go. Something came up.” He looks at me from over the rim of his coffee cup, and I push on before he has the chance to examine me like I’m on a witness stand. Rising, I say, “Thanks for dinner.”

  “It can’t be that urgent. Sit down and drink your coffee, son.”

  I shake my head. “Another time.” Then I turn on my heel and get the hell out of there. Coffee is the last thing I want right now. I want a bottle of whisky and time to think.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Addison

  The brick that’s been sitting in my stomach since I had to half-lie about my dinner plans is finally starting to disintegrate as I board the elevator in Roman’s apartment building. Only a couple of minutes more until I can step into his arms and forget the stress of the day, from the hours of challenging Bill Reeves on behalf of my client, to secretly meeting up with Austin.

  He’ll undoubtedly ask me about how my time was with my cousin, and that’s okay. I’ll be able to answer truthfully because I did actually meet up with Sam. Roman’s birthday is coming up, and since he’s such a huge Blackhawks fan, I want to give him a hockey stick signed by the team. Sam is hooking me up with four seats behind the players box for us—Chance, Jane, Roman, and me—at a home game next month. Then we’ll be invited to party with the team afterward, where Sam will bring the stick so all the guys can sign it for him there. I’m crazy excited to surprise him. That should definitely earn me Best Girlfriend Ever status, if I don’t have it already.

  So I only have to feel guilty about omitting the part where I met Austin at Starbucks. Not an outright lie, but it still bothers me, knowing we’re keeping our dealings secret from Roman. I implored Austin to be truthful with his friend, but he was adamant that Roman not know he hired me as his attorney, much less the reason. Since I said I would only work pro bono, it’s a really informal arrangement. More me helping a friend than a strict attorney-client relationship. But that doesn’t mean I can take liberties with his request for confidentiality.

  It’s a simple job of helping him with a contract and a non-disclosure agreement. Tonight we talked about what he needed. I’ll draw up the papers with the proper language and meet with him one more time to make sure everything is to his satisfaction, and that should be it. No more sneaking around. No more omissions. No more lies. I just keep telling myself that I’m not doing anything wrong, or that would hurt Roman. I’m helping a friend with a private matter, that’s all. Roman understands better than anyone that keeping a client’s privacy is just part of being an attorney.

  I’m an attorney. I think today is the first time I’ve truly felt like one. Not like a law student, not like an intern who will be one someday, and not like a junior colleague still learning the ropes. I feel like an accomplished, capable attorney who can hold her own against one of the best in all of Chicago. Knowing I’ll win that settlement for my client was a rush unlike anything I’ve ever known. And sharing the moment with Roman magnified it by a million. If his father hadn’t been there, I would have thrown myself into his arms and squealed like a little girl. Remaining stoic and professional had been harder than winning the case.

  But then afterward in Roman’s office… I sigh audibly, thankful there’s no one else in the elevator with me to witness my reaction to the memory. I don’t have to glance down to know my nipples are standing out against my worn Loyola long-sleeve tee, and thanks to my breath growing shallow, my heaving bosom is practically waving them around like a flag on the Fourth of July. At least the skinny jeans I threw on when I rushed home to change are providing me with some cover for any excitement happening below the waist.

  As the doors part on Roman’s floor, I step into the hall and make my way toward his apartment, remembering how he made furious love to me on his leather couch earlier.

  Making furious love. It’s the perfect description, and it makes me smile.

  What started out as simple fucking has evolved over the course of a few months into something much deeper. But even though the emotional substance has grown, it hasn’t changed how we express things in the metaphorical bedroom. Sex for us is like a contact sport—fast-paced and sweaty, with numerous positions. But we also play dirty and often have the bruises, bite marks, and scratches to prove it. It’s a delicious dichotomy of romantic roughness. Furious love.

  This afternoon was no different. At least, not physically. Emotionally, though…that’s another thing entirely. The details are a little fuzzy, but I remember him giving me the control, then leaning back to let me fuck him however I saw fit. But that never happened. He wasn’t complacent for more than a few seconds before grabbing my hips to guide my movements to meet his upward thrusts.

  And that’s when I noticed the change in him. Something in his eyes I’d never seen until then. Something deeper, more open, like his heart was calling to mine. We haven’t said the “L” word yet, but I think we could be close. I’m not in a hurry, though. Things are greater than great between us, and as long as that’s the case, I don’t mind taking our time with the bigger steps.

  I almost knock on the door, then I remember his text. He said he might be in the shower, and I should just let myself in. My mind instantly flashes me pictures of shower sex, but I shut them down before I get too excited. Roman prefers to keep his showers hygienically purposeful, so that’s one variety of sex we haven’t done. I don’t push him on it because the man more than makes up for it with every other kind I knew about, and some I didn’t. I have zero complaints in that department. Or any department, really.

  Using my key, I open the door and lock it behind me, then set my purse on the console table in the entry hall, which is lit only by a small lamp. “Roman?” He doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s still in the shower. I’ll grab a glass of wine and wait for him on the b
alcony. It’s a beautiful night, if a little cool, and I like looking up at the moon from his super-comfy lounge chair.

  I round the corner and wonder why he left all the lights off in the apartment. Maybe he hasn’t been in the main living area since the sun set. Luckily Roman’s design taste is minimalist, so it’s a straight shot across the room to the light switch by the kitchen and dining room.

  “How was dinner?”

  I yelp as my hands fly to my mouth, and I spin around just as Roman turns on the lamp next to the chair where he’s sitting. I drop my hands and press them against my heart, jack-rabbiting behind my ribs. “Fucking hell. Are you trying to kill me, Reeves? I thought you were in the shower.”

  “I was. Now I’m not.”

  “Obviously,” I say wryly. Panic ebbing, I take in the whole picture. His hair doesn’t appear damp, but it’s not styled how it was during the day so he’s been out of the shower long enough for it to dry. Which makes me wonder why he’d text me ten minutes ago to say he was about to take one, but then I realize it was so he could ambush me. Roman has a flair for the dramatic—whether it’s in court, with his appearance, or during sex, he loves the shock factor. It’s one of the things that turn me on about him, but this time it nearly gave me a heart attack.

  He’s wearing a pair of jeans but the rest of him is gloriously bare, his tattooed muscles and sinews accented with highlights and shadows cast by the nearby lamp. He sits sprawled out in his wide leather chair like the leader of some badass club, legs splayed, arms propped on the sides, and a squat glass of whisky lazily clutched in one hand. It reminds me of the wine I was on my way to snag, which I now need more than I did thirty seconds ago.

  “Mind if I help myself to some wine?” I ask as I enter the kitchen.

  “I don’t pretend to think I can stop you from helping yourself to whatever you want, Addison.”

  His apartment is much larger than mine, and not open concept, so I can’t see him to gauge his expression, but I swear there’s a hint of derision in his tone. Stopping at the counter, I call over my shoulder, “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m keeping things from you. I focus on pouring myself half of a glass of Coppola cabernet and head back into the living room. Pausing in the doorway, I take a sip and study him, searching for clues that he suspects something, but all I see is heated passion in his half-lidded eyes. He lifts the glass to his lips, keeping me pinned with his gaze, and takes a healthy drink of his whisky.

  That’s when I notice the bottle of Glenfiddich next to him is more than half gone. I can’t remember how full it was last time I was here, but I’ve never seen him keep the bottle near him like that. He keeps it on a sideboard and gets his refills there. I tilt my head slightly in question. “Baby, have you had a lot to drink?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can handle my liquor. Just unwinding from the day.” He sets his drink on the table and crooks his finger at me. “Come here.”

  Fluttering erupts in my belly as I obey and fold myself onto his lap, sitting sideways. One of his hands slides up to palm the back of my neck and the other grips my jaw, his fingertips pressing into my cheeks. Then he pulls me to him, his lips bruising mine as his tongue plunges inside, demanding my surrender. I give in, needing so badly to feel how much he wants me, to know that I haven’t lost him to my secrets. He tastes so strongly of whisky that if I wasn’t already drunk on the way he makes me feel, I could probably catch a buzz just from making out with him.

  I don’t want to break our kiss, but Roman still has control of my head so I have no choice when he pulls away. Our breaths saw in and out of our lungs. I drop my eyes to stare at his full lips, willing them back to me. When he speaks, his voice gravelly rough, I get lost in watching the way they move to form his words and it takes me a second to realize he’d asked me a question. Reluctantly, I lift my gaze to meet his. “What?”

  “I asked if you thought about me during dinner.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. “I’m always thinking about you,” I whisper.

  “Is that right,” he says. “Always? Even when you’re with other people, and I’m not around. You’re thinking of me then?”

  “In some capacity, yes. Always.”

  “I was thinking about you, too.” His hand falls away from my jaw and twists one of my nipples. I suck in a sharp breath from the shock of pleasure-pain striking my clit like lightning. My body involuntarily jerks causing most of what was left of my wine to slosh over the rim onto his pristine white carpet.

  “Oh shit!” I move to get off his lap, but he holds me prisoner. “Roman, your carpet.”

  “Fuck the carpet,” he growls, slapping the glass from my hand. My jaw drops on a gasp at the stain setting in, but he clenches a fist in my hair and redirects my gaze. “I want your attention on me, Addison. Do I have it?”

  “Yes, Roman. You have it.” Trepidation skitters through my veins. He’s always controlling, but this is bordering on volatile. I search his eyes, but I can’t see into them like I could this afternoon. He’s closed himself off, but I’ve noticed he does this whenever we play with Austin, and even when he spins taboo stories of fucking me in front of a crowd or bringing in two men to take me however he wants.

  They’re fantasies that drive me wild when I imagine them while he’s taking me, but when I think about them later, they’re not nearly as enticing. I’ve promised myself that I won’t worry about Roman’s kink escalating unless it goes beyond mere talk.

  I’m hoping the opposite will happen. That in time Roman’s feelings for me will grow strong enough that he won’t even feel the need to continue ménage so often. A third of our sex life is probably shared with Austin, and while the experiences are always mind-blowing, I don’t want to be involved in a triad—even a part-time one—long term. A special occasion thing would be fine, but I don’t need it like Roman does.

  I told myself earlier that I’ll give it another month. One more month to see where this goes. If he’s not on the same page as me by then, I’ll cut my losses and we’ll end things amicably like we always said we would. But that’s not how I want this to end. I don’t want this to end at all.

  We are enough for me. I’m holding out that someday soon, I will be enough for him, too.

  Using his hold on my hair, he drags me closer and licks a path up my neck as his free hand slips between my legs. His fingers press and rub the denim over my sex. I moan and embrace the sensations rippling through the lips of my pussy.

  “So responsive,” he rasps over the sensitive skin of my throat. “Even with Austin. The second he touches you, you come alive, don’t you?”

  “His touch is your touch, remember? You taught me that.”

  His lips graze my ear, and his warm breath stirs my hair. “What if it wasn’t? What if I want him to touch you when I’m not in the room watching? I wouldn’t even be in the house. It’s just you…” Roman bites my earlobe and pinches the lips of my pussy together through my jeans at the same time, confusing my pleasure and pain receptors and pulling a mewl of wanton need from my chest. “…and him.”

  I try to imagine myself with only Austin, letting him touch me and kiss me without the benefit of feeling Roman’s hungry gaze or hearing his rough commands and titillating observations. I’m not turned on by that even the slightest bit, but maybe he likes the idea of “catching” us in the act and then enlisting Austin’s help to “punish” me. That could be hot, as long as Roman comes in before too long. “Maybe you invite us both over, but you’re running late at court,” I say, helping weave the scenario. “And maybe Austin wants to get things started for you so that we’re ready as soon as you walk in the door.”

  “That’s not how it works. I’m not a part of this one.”

  Roman spins me in his lap so my back is pressed to his front, my thighs spread over his. He lifts my shirt over my breasts then pulls my demi-cups down to expose my nipples to his tw
isting and tugging. My body writhes in pleasure but my mind is struggling to follow his words.

  “I don’t understand. You want another man to fuck me? Without you?”

  “Austin’s not just another man. He’s been with you at least a dozen times already. That’s bound to create a certain bond between you, regardless of what’s between us. It wouldn’t really be all that different if he fucked you without me. But I’d know it was happening. I’d make sure he told me, so I’d know every time he’s shoving his tongue and his cock in your sweet cunt.”

  I freeze. “Roman—”

  “Or maybe you’d prefer if I didn’t know,” he continues, his gruff words dumping ice water over me. “Maybe you’d rather fuck him in secret. Or make me watch with no say in what happens and no option of joining in. Is that it? Do you have cuckolding fantasies, Addison? Does the wildcat in you want to see me in a position of weakness? Tell me what excites you. Tell me how we take things to the next level.”

  Holy fucking shit! Yanking my shirt down, I bolt from his lap to stand several feet away from him. I almost keep going, straight across the room and out the door, but I somehow find the strength to stop. I can’t look at him yet, though. I need to get my bearings, figure out the game he’s playing. If this is a game at all. If it’s not—if Roman truly wants to go all Emeril Legasse and kick things up a notch or ten—then my hopes for our future are extremely misplaced. Either way, I have to find out.

  Gathering my courage, I turn to face him. He has his drink in hand again, and I watch as he tosses back the two fingers of liquor and pours himself another double. This isn’t like him. Something’s wrong, and I shudder to think what it might be. “What’s going on, Roman? Why are you drinking like you’re trying to find oblivion in the bottom of that bottle?”

  He looks at it and blinks as though he’s surprised so much of it is gone, then shrugs like he doesn’t give a fuck. “Dinner with my dad ended on a really shitty note.”