by Amelia Wilde
I pull her in close and kiss the top of her head.
“After that,” she says, after taking in another deep breath, “I tried to go to the police. I didn’t want to talk my way into some guy’s penthouse and steal from him. But Charlie had a guy waiting for me. He pretended to be one of those guys selling CDs on the street, and he gave me a message.”
“What was the message?”
“One chance.”
My hands clench into fists. “So you came to my penthouse.”
“Yeah.”
“That day in the elevator, you were supposed to go up there.”
Angelica laughs, sounding a little bitter. “There was a whole plan. He knew you were moving in that day, and I was supposed to pose as one of the movers and pretend to deliver a portable scanner. I had it in my purse.”
“A portable scanner?” I can’t help but laugh at that. “That was your cover?”
“Yes, and then you blew it all to hell when you got in the elevator!” Despite the heavy tone of the conversation, Angelica’s eyes sparkle. “All he told me was the last name. Brandon. I thought you’d be some crotchety old man.”
“Hardly.”
“Hardly.”
She looks deeply into my eyes, smiling at the memory. Happy for the first time since I walked in the door.
“That was real, right then.”
“It was,” she agrees. “When I got out on the eighth floor it took me a while to get myself together. I wanted to follow you up to that penthouse and...you know.”
“I do know.”
“Anyway...you know the rest from there. I downloaded the information Charlie wanted once a week and met up with him to pass it off. That’s where I was that night at three in the morning when you caught me sneaking in.”
“I figured.”
“I wanted to tell you so many times. I wanted—I wanted to make it so clear that I was only doing it because I thought my brother’s life was in danger. It still might be. I don’t know if they’ve caught Charlie or his people yet. But every time I worked up the courage, Charlie would threaten me again. He even found out where my mother lives.”
Her eyes are wide, tears collecting in the corners.
“I would have done the same thing.”
She swallows.
“I’m sorry, Jett.” Her voice drops and her eyes fall to her lap.
I could tell her that it’s all right, that I’ll give her the rest of our lives to work this out, but the words escape me.
Instead, I put my fingers under her chin, tilt her face toward mine, and kiss her until there’s no doubt she’s forgiven, completely and totally.
Chapter Forty-Five
Angelica
Jett kisses me long and deep and hard, and with every moment the kiss stretches out, more of my body relaxes, more warmth spreads out from my chest down to my toes.
At first it’s a gentle warmth, a happiness that I’ve been forgiven, that he’s no longer done with me, but as the kiss lengthens, a spark inside me catches fire.
I press into him, harder, and swing my legs over his lap so that I’m straddling him. Our bodies fit together so perfectly that it would be a fucking shame if we walked away from each other ever again. Jett seems to know it. His hands go around my waist, pulling me down hard. He breaks the kiss and turns my head to the side with one hand, dragging his lips down the side of my neck, fast, then slow, so slowly that it makes me entire body tremble, sparks shooting from where his lips make contact with my skin.
“Fuck,” I whisper. When I can’t stand it I buck against him, turning back so I can unbutton his shirt. I get the first three done before he’s gripping the hem of my tank with both hands and tearing it over my head.
I don’t have a bra on, so my breasts are exposed, and as I work to unbutton the rest of his shirt he leans forward and circles one of my nipples—already hard—with his tongue, cupping the weight of the other in his hand, playing my nipple with the pad of his thumb. The sensation is electrifying and connects in a zinging line with my pussy, which is instantly soaked and throbbing.
“You’re a God damn treasure, Angelica Chandler,” he says, his voice husky.
“You sure about that?” I can hardly breathe, I want him so badly, and his fucking shirt won’t come undone.
“Stand up.”
I leap to my feet beside the couch and he stands, too, then rips his shirt open with both hands. He shrugs it off and tosses it to the floor, then gets to work on his belt buckle.
No time to waste. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my yoga pants and slide them down along with my panties, stepping out of them just as Jett gathers me in again, falling back against the couch.
I spread my legs over him. “Yes.”
He’s already hard, already waiting, and I put one leg on either side of him and line up the head of his cock with my opening. He’s touching my wetness, a fraction of an inch outside already, and I run my finger along his jawline and to his lips. He flicks his tongue out and then bites down, gently, so gently, on my fingertip.
“Do you really forgive me?”
I have to know.
“Yes.”
There’s only one way to respond.
I lever myself up and come down hard against his steeled cock, taking the length of him inside me in one clean thrust. Jett throws his head back against the couch and grips my hips so tightly I’m sure there’ll be bruises tomorrow, but I don’t care. It feels so good to be with him. To be possessed by him.
I swirl my hips around, rocking against him so that he fills every inch of me. He presses against the walls of my pussy, a fucking pleasurable stretching that’s going to push me over the edge, it’s going to....
I work harder, circling, fucking, and he meets me with every thrust, the head of his cock hitting a spot inside that sends waves of heat through my entire body. I toss my head back and Jett leans forward and licks the space between my breasts. A deep moan escapes me. I hope the neighbors are out.
I’m riding him up to the very top and I’m almost there, almost fucking there, when he grabs my hips and presses me down hard on his cock so I can’t move.
“Wait.”
“Wait for what?” I gasp.
“I have to ask you something.” He has a wicked look on his face, a wicked gleam in his eyes. He knows what he’s doing to me, that sexy bastard.
“Ask it,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Do you forgive me for breaking up with you in my accountant’s office?”
“Yes,” I growl.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes!” I cry.
He loosens his grip on my hips and I can’t stop myself, I’m thrusting hard against him and he’s meeting me with every movement, and being filled by him, taken by him, pleasured by him is so much, so good, so perfect, that it’s not long before I hit the peak and explode, coming hard around his cock, my fingernails digging into his shoulders, body quaking with the release, muscles clenching around him.
He meets me there a moment later, holding my hips down so that every single millimeter of his cock is firmly pressed inside of me, my hips still going wild with my orgasm, circling him with a frenzy I’ve never felt with anyone else and never want to feel with anyone else again for as long as I live.
It takes several minutes for the aftershocks to stop coming, and I ride them out with my face pressed against his shoulder while he runs his fingers through my hair, over and over. His cock responds every time another wave of pleasure comes, pulsing like we’re one person.
I never want to get up.
Soon, Jett whispers something in my ear. I’m so caught up in the scent of him, in the firm lines of him, that at first I don’t hear.
“What?”
“Shower.”
“No. Why can’t we stay here? Forever?”
He kisses me, tender and soft against my bruised lips, and smiles. “We can’t go to the police station naked and covered in sex.”
“The poli
ce station?” My stomach drops. This can’t be. Is he seriously still dead set on—?
“Absolutely, sweet thing. Do you think I’m going to let that Charlie asshole run around the streets of New York? No. We need to put some pressure on.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Jett
The world seems brighter when Angelica and I leave her building, her hand in my arm. Angelica is a God damn vision, dressed in a sharp little blazer over a deep maroon-colored sheath dress.
I beat Stuart to the door of the Town Car, then slide in across the seat.
“Hi, Stuart,” Angelica says, beaming.
“Hello, Ms. Chandler.” He smiles back at her in the rearview mirror.
“We have something to take care of, Stuart,” I say, unable to wipe the grin off my own face. “The police station on 54th. Quick as you can.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting next to Angelica in one of the offices on the main floor of the station. There’s a bit of a crowd. A detective, the chief of police, two officers, Angelica’s lawyer, my own personal lawyer—who I forced to leave the meeting he was in fifteen minutes ago—and the two of us. We’re on a conference call with the DA’s office, and there’s a lot of legalese being exchanged that frankly makes me want to tear my hair out.
I want to be back at my penthouse with Angelica. But first, I need to figure out a way to prove to her, once and for all, that she’s the one. I never want her to have to worry about this again.
“Let me make myself absolutely clear,” I interject, putting one hand on the polished surface of the chief’s desk. “I do not want any charges to be pressed in this matter. Ms. Chandler was forced to provide access to my files under threat of violence. That’s extortion. Her brother’s safety was being held for ransom.”
There’s another burst of chatter in the room, and then the phone on the chief’s desk rings. “Quiet!” His voice is booming, and deep, but his face is calm. This isn’t a man who’s going to make a hasty judgment. “Yes?” His expression is neutral while he listens to the person speaking on the other end of the line. “Okay.” We all lean in. “I don’t have to remind you that this is going to be one hell of an investigation. Don’t fuck it up.” Then he hangs up the phone, folds his hands on the desk, and looks around the room.
“Ms. Chandler,” he says, after a significant pause, “you’ll be happy to hear that our officers have apprehended the man you knew as Charlie and his associate, Malcolm Drake.”
“Malcolm Drake?” Angelica says, her forehead wrinkling.
“The man who posed as a CD seller.”
Angelica lets out a huge sigh, then smiles widely, visibly relieved. “You got them both?”
“Yes, and we all owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Her eyes widen. “For what?”
“The information you provided made it easier to find him.” The chief clears his throat. “When our agents apprehended him, they recognized him for his true identity.”
Angelica gives a little shake of her head.
“Charlie was only an alias. His real name is Randall Harvey.”
A collective gasp runs through the officers in the room, and Angelica’s head whips around. “I’ve never heard that name.”
“He’s in charge of some of the most notorious crime rings in the city, targeting different groups at different times. We’ve been after him for the last three years.”
Angelica narrows her eyes. “I mean—I’m so glad that I could help. But are you sure this was because of me?”
The chief nods solemnly. “We’re operating under the assumption that he’s run scams like this before, but we’ve never been able to pick up any of his associates—or the people he’s forcing to run errands for him.”
“Why not?”
The chief looks at me, then back at Angelica, and I understand.
“Because he makes them disappear.” I say it before I can stop myself.
“Jesus Christ,” Angelica whispers under her breath.
“Our guess,” the chief says, “is that he was going to string you along for just long enough to get a permanent foothold in Mr. Brandon’s accounts. Your instinct was right, even if your actions were on the wrong side of the law.” Then he turns to me. “You’re adamant about not pressing charges, Mr. Brandon?”
“Completely.”
“Then I think we’re all in agreement.”
There’s a chorus of yeses from throughout the room, including the person on the line from the DA’s office.
“I’m sorry you got caught up in this, Ms. Chandler,” the chief says, rising from his seat and offering her his hand to shake. She stands to shake his hand, and then I do the same. “Would you mind making yourself available as a witness?”
“Of course she will,” Angelica’s lawyer says, her eyes still wide.
“Wonderful,” the chief says, then glances around the room. “No need to loiter, people. Get back to work. Ms. Chandler, you’re free to go. Mr. Brandon, we’ll be in touch.”
Everyone files out ahead of us, but Angelica turns back to the chief. “Sir, are you—are you sure that—?”
“I’ve already been in touch with the local PD from your hometown, Ms. Chandler. Until we’ve apprehended all the significant figures from Mr. Harvey’s group, there’ll be someone looking out for your family. If you have any concerns at all about your own safety, you can call me.”
“Thanks.”
We turn to go, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders while we head out of the police station.
“Are you ready to go home?”
“More than ready. If I never have to see the inside of a police station again, I’ll be happy.”
“No guarantees. You’re probably going to be a key witness for them. You’ll probably have to identify Harvey from a lineup.”
“What did you do, binge-watch Law and Order while I was gone?”
“Maybe.”
I pull open the door of the town car and let Angelica climb in first. I feel light and free, and I’m not the one who was in danger of going to jail over this ridiculous business.
As I slide in next to her and pull the door shut behind me, a strange expression flickers across her face.
“You know, Jett,” she says slowly, “now that this is all over, I think this might...I think we should probably talk.”
“About what?”
“About whether we both want this.”
“Do you not?”
Her voice spikes high. “Won’t you always suspect me? Won’t it be hard for you to trust me, even if we are together?”
I smile at her, and she frowns.
“Why are you smiling?”
“There’s something I wanted to show you.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Angelica
I don’t know what possesses me when we leave the police station. I don’t know why I can’t just accept Jett’s defense of me. Maybe it’s because I’ve worked for years to fit in here, in the city, in my career, with my friends. I clawed my way out of my tiny hometown, taking out student loans and applying for every scholarship possible, but underneath this cascade of emotions, the girl I used to be returns in the blink of an eye.
The girl I used to be who sought approval, who needed people to reassure her that she was, in fact, making it and not a complete fraud.
I was a fraud with Jett. Not completely, but enough, and I just want to know. I just want to know that after the excitement fades, after the relief is less powerful and it’s just the two of us, that he won’t think the worst of me if I’m not in bed when he wakes up at night.
So I ask him before things go any further.
“You know, Jett, now that this is all over, I think this might...I think we should probably talk.” It’s a thousand times harder than admitting to him that I was the culprit when it came to the money leaking out of his accounts.
“About what?”
“About whether we both want this.”
“Do you not?”
I want this. I want this so much. Whatever it is, whatever it becomes, and it could become something so incredible, so fantastic, that it will last a lifetime.
I don’t want to pressure him. I can’t say that I want it so much that every muscle in my body aches to be next to him, even when he’s in the next room. “Won’t you always suspect me? Won’t it be hard for you to trust me, even if we are together?”
He doesn’t launch into a lengthy explanation for why he will or won’t suspect me. He just smiles at me, his green eyes dancing in the late afternoon light. “Why are you smiling?”
“There’s something I wanted to show you.”
He leans forward and whispers something to Stuart, then leans back and enfolds me in his arms again.
Aside from being in bed with him, it’s the best feeling in the entire world. In my entire life.
I never dreamed it could be like this.
I just don’t want it to end.
Ever.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to a nondescript building on the Upper East Side.
“Back in ten, Stuart,” Jett says, then steps out of the car, extending his hand to help me out onto the sidewalk.
The building looks like a generic office building, the concrete facade giving absolutely nothing away. It’s the kind of building you could pass a hundred times and never really see. It looks like dozens of other buildings I’ve passed during my time in the city.
“What is this place?”
“You’ll see.” Jett’s eyes are shining, and he walks in through the front door radiating a kind of confidence that fills me with heat.
The lobby is small, paneled almost entirely in wood polished to a high shine. There’s a kind of sacred hush about the room, which has exactly one occupant other than the two of us: a man in a dark, tailored suit who sits behind an antique desk. When we come through the door and into the cool of the air conditioning, he stands up and approaches us.
“Mr. Brandon,” he says, extending his hand. The two men shake.
