by Tara Leigh
There was a wrench in my chest as I squeezed the wing of her hip bone with one hand, the other gathering a fistful of golden blonde strands and tugging. Not very gently, either. Losing eye contact with me as her neck yielded to the pressure of my hold, Jolie gasped, reminding me just how much I loved that sound.
“You don’t deserve to watch me fuck you,” I growled. She didn’t. She hadn’t earned that right yet.
That right was all mine, and I claimed it. Slowly, I dragged my crown over the shadowed seam between her cheeks. Starting just below the base of her spine, I savored her quiver as I pressed against the pleats encircling her tiny rosebud of an asshole, then moving lower, where moisture had leaked from her pussy, making her lips slick and slippery. “Fuck, you feel good.”
I repeated the process several times, pressing a little harder against her ass with each sweep. I wouldn’t take Jolie there quite yet, but I enjoyed the tease. The knowing that I could. That her body was mine to do with as I pleased.
At least, for tonight.
I pushed against that private, tender place again. She made a squeaky kind of whimper, a tremor vibrating though her spine, shaking her ribcage. “Has anyone ever had you here, Jolie?”
She tried to shake her head, but my hold was too tight. “No.”
I pushed a little harder, her tight ring of muscle fluttering in protest. “Should I take you here tonight?” My left hand curved around her hip, reaching between her thighs to toy with the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves at her core.
Jolie cried out as I pushed a little harder, stretching her a little more. I wasn’t inside her, not even close. But she was so small, so tight. Even those tiny darkened pleats had paled.
Beneath the thin film of latex, my cock was an iron rod, ready to burst from the possibility of sliding into virgin territory. Into the tight clench of a place no man had ever been before.
And it was so tempting. Because as I played with her clit, dragging circles over and around the greedy bud, Jolie was arching her back, her hips rolling against my hand.
Cursing, I jerked away from her. I was an asshole—but I wasn’t a monster. After ten years, I wasn’t willing to ease my way into her body, letting her adjust to the invasion. I wasn’t capable of mercy. Not right now. Her ass would have to wait.
My instincts were base and primal. Gluttonous. I wanted to pound into Jolie, possess her entirely, shred her the way she’d shredded me.
Shifting my cock just two inches lower, I slammed into her.
Jolie yelled, but it wasn’t a cry of pain. It was one of pure pleasure. There was triumph in her burst of sound, an audible mix of relief and rapture. My gut twisted. I wanted her to relish every minute of tonight, but I wanted her to hate it, too. To resist the thrill of my touch and skill of my dick. Because I was only on loan. Our time was borrowed. And she was going to mourn the loss for a lifetime.
Releasing her hair, I slid my hand over the creamy expanse of Jolie’s neck, feeling her pulse racing beneath my thumb, her throat working in fluttering swallows beneath my fingers.
My thrusts were making the entire bed shake, my balls slapping Jolie’s thighs, the hard ridge of muscle covering my pelvic bone pounding her ass.
And the hand I’d wrapped around Jolie’s throat, it was squeezing. Compressing the vulnerable flesh surrounding her airway. Controlling her access to oxygen. Cutting off the proof of her pleasure—her moans and groans and eager gasps.
But pleasure came for her anyway, the clutch of her cunt squeezing me, milking the cum from my balls like a thirsty whore.
Except that Jolie was no whore. She was a deposed Park Avenue Princess who discovered that her tiara had been made of paste and plastic. Just as my crown had been nothing but a con.
After I pulled out of her, Jolie slid down into the mattress with a long, satisfied exhale, the graceful lines of her body glowing from the city skyline shining through the windows. “Oh my god, that was . . .”
I threw the used condom to the floor, flopping her over so I could see her breasts and belly and yes, even the damn bliss on her face. “Come here. I’m not done with you yet.”
27
Jolie
Every part of my body ached, in the very best way.
Weak sunlight was just beginning to lighten the sky when I felt Tripp roll over and sit on the side of the bed. I remained still, not sure what to say or where this new day put us. Words had been unnecessary last night. We were just mouths and tongues, moans and touches. Tangled limbs and twisted desire.
And now morning had arrived.
I heard Tripp walk out of the room and I rolled over, peering out his bedroom door. But he was already coming back, a pile of clothing in his hand. My clothing.
He deposited it on the bed. “I’m going to take a shower. You can let yourself out.”
My jaw sagged as I rose to a sitting position. “I—”
Tripp was gorgeously disheveled and gloriously naked. But the heat that burned between us last night had been doused. His eyes were cold. Bitterly cold. “What? You wanted something different? A long, drawn out goodbye? Or maybe I was supposed to chase after you again?”
What did I want?
I hated that I still wanted Tripp, even now. I wanted Tripp’s mouth on mine, tasting me, claiming me. I wanted his hands on my skin, touching me, marking me. I wanted to feel the singe of his gaze on every part of me, memorizing each shape and shadow. I wanted him to fuck me and make love to me, to feel my soul shatter apart even as the most essential part of him was filling me up deep inside.
I burned with all the want flashing through my body. When it came to Tripp, I just wanted. It was an ache that had never gone away. Ever.
I blinked back tears as Tripp’s harsh chuckle abraded my ears. I had nothing to say. No alternative to offer.
“Yeah. Didn’t think so.”
I fled Tripp’s apartment while he was in the shower. A morning-after walk of shame that truly felt shameful. When I got home, I practically dove into my own bed. Miserable and misty-eyed, I didn’t even realize what day it was until Romy’s Facetime call interrupted my scattered thoughts.
Somehow I managed to help Romy with her outfit, and instead of hanging up on me, she continued our call during breakfast, the gap-toothed grin she was already asking to ‘fix’ hovering over a bowl of cereal. I adored that smile. “So, how was your date?”
“Date?” I laughed nervously. “What date?” How could she possibly know about Tripp?
“Mom said you went on a date last night.”
My heart squeezed at Mom, wishing for the millionth time that honor belonged to me. “Oh.” I’d already forgotten about Brad, who had spent the majority of our short time together thumbing off emails to a colleague while muttering about the downward slide of the dollar.
“Was he a frog?”
“A frog?”
“You know, a guy you kiss to find out if he’s really your prince.”
A crease dented my forehead. “Romy, a real prince will treat you like a princess right from the start. Kissing a boy won’t ever turn him into a prince.”
“Good. Cuz it sounded pretty gross to me.”
The thought of Romy kissing a frog sounded a heck of a lot better than her kissing a boy, not that either option was appealing. Pushing away the unsettling visual, I listened as she filled me in on school and soccer and her ever-expanding circle of friends. I could listen to her talk, about anything, forever. Too soon, I saw her look up from the camera and knew Nina must be just out of range, urging her to finish up. “When am I going to see your new place? You said you would take me to a Broadway show and we could have a sleepover.”
The pleading tone of Romy’s voice coupled with the were-you-lying-to-me look in her eyes tugged at my heartstrings.
“Soon, I promise. My furniture comes next week and—”
“I don’t care about that. We can have a picnic on the floor and I can bring a sleeping bag.”
“I’ll talk to Nina.�
� I couldn’t bear to refer to her as Mom. “Hopefully this weekend, okay?”
Her face brightened. “Okay. Bye, sis. I love you.” She made a kissing face and then was gone.
“Love you, too,” I called, hoping she heard me.
Nina replaced Romy, her face upside-down for a moment before she adjusted the phone. “So, tell me, how was your date with Brad?”
The smile I’d forced onto my face died. “Are you two reading off the same script these days?”
She sniffed, patting a blonde bob that was as perfectly coiffed as always. “No, of course not. She must have overheard us talking about it is all.”
“Look, Nina, I’d really rather she not hear about the men in my life.” My teeth ached from staying silent on the man we should be talking about —my father. Nina deserved to know she hadn’t been married to a criminal. But how could I do that without mentioning Tripp?
And the irony of Tripp disclosing information about my father when I was holding back an even bigger bombshell—that he was a father—wasn’t lost on me either.
But my sentiment fell on deaf ears. “Ooh, so you are seeing him? I knew Brad would be perfect for you.”
No, he wasn’t. Not even close. “Sorry, we didn’t really hit it off.” Part of me knew Nina’s sudden interest in my dating life was because she wanted me to hurry up and have my ‘own’ babies so I wouldn’t be as focused on Romy. But Romy was my baby, too. Even if she never knew it.
“Jolie, did you really give Brad a fair chance?” Nina released an aggrieved sigh. “Men who spend their days earning a good living don’t have time to look like the male models you work with, Jolie.”
To Nina, earning a good living meant pulling in at least eight figures a year, with plenty more in the bank. “I can handle my own personal life.” Before she could say anything else, I redirected the conversation toward the only reason I hadn’t hung up yet. “Speaking of personal lives, I want to take Romy for the weekend. I haven’t had the chance to spend time with her since the move. She wants to see my apartment and go to a show, and I’m sure you could use a break, too.”
“I don’t know, Jolie,” she said. “Romy just started this indoor soccer league and sometimes they have games on Saturday afternoons.”
I wanted to scream in frustration. “Nina, she can miss one game if she needs to.”
“What kind of example would that set for her? Romy can’t ignore her responsibilities just to go have fun.”
The derision leaching from Nina’s words made my shame vanish and anger rise. “She’s only nine, Nina. Fun is exactly what she should be having—every chance she gets.”
For me, fun had ended with the arrival of a newspaper headline, and the responsibility thrust on my shoulders had been a heavy burden. Childhood was so fleeting, and I wanted Romy to enjoy every minute of it.
Nina appeared flustered by my outburst, squinting at me from the screen as if she was trying to figure out why I hadn’t immediately acceded to her suggestions like I’d always done in the past. “Well, I’ll talk to her coach and we’ll see.”
“Fine, talk to her coach. But I’m coming to Connecticut this afternoon.”
Ending the call before Nina could make up another excuse, or I said something I couldn’t take back, I collapsed against my mattress like a deflated balloon. Warring emotions vied for space inside my muddled mind as I stared up at the ceiling, so tangled I couldn’t make sense of them if I tried. And I was just too damn tired to try right now.
For years I’d kept so busy I barely had time to breathe. Jetting from location to location. Barely eating or sleeping. Go-sees, fittings, rehearsals for runway shows, bookings for photo shoots. New places, new people, new clothes, new cameras. It was easy to push away real feelings when everything about my life felt so ephemeral, like it could all disappear at any minute.
I thought moving back to New York would be a fresh start. That everything would fall into place once I put down roots. And I thought it had . . . for a hot minute.
Now it felt like a mess.
Seeing Tripp had stirred up feelings I’d denied for too many years, especially a longing to be a real mother to my own damn daughter.
But was I being selfish?
I’d grown up in Manhattan’s privileged fishbowl, surrounded by cement, cared for by a revolving door of nannies and housekeepers until I was in my teens. Romy had led such a different life, most of it spent on a two-acre lot at the end of a cul-de-sac in a picturesque Connecticut town where she and her friends roamed the neighborhood in a girls-on-bikes posse. What could I possibly offer that would be better than what she had now?
Maybe I wouldn’t ache for more if Nina didn’t make me beg for even the briefest bits of time with my daughter. I loved Romy too much to want to do anything to jeopardize her happiness.
And then there was Tripp.
Romy’s father.
His actions this morning had been hurtful, but I couldn’t really blame him.
I’d clutched my indignation to my chest like a shield for the past decade, bitterness on my tongue and resentment in my heart. For the way Tripp had ended things. For how cruelly and abruptly he’d broken my heart.
But he’d been a nineteen-year-old kid whose entire world was collapsing around his ears. I expected Tripp to be a life raft when in reality, he’d been a piece of driftwood in the ocean. The same as me.
Was it even possible to set things right at this point? How?
Romy yearned for her father—the one she thought had died before she was born. My father. I couldn’t count the number of times she’d called me, her voice trembling as she asked for stories from my childhood. The sad thing was, I didn’t have many memories of him at all. I’d loved my father, but as I searched for moments to share, I realized how little I knew him.
Which made me even more grateful for Nina, who had stepped in and given me someone to count on. Someone I could talk to about navigating the cliquey world of teenaged girls and elite prep schools. Who had guided me through the debutante process, pushing me forward even when I’d balked at the outdated, chauvinistic concept . . . and led me to Tripp. And of course, Tripp had given me Romy.
In a circular way, it almost seemed fitting that Nina should raise my daughter, should wake up to her smiles and tuck her in at night.
But what if that wasn’t true? What if the choices I made were the wrong ones?
What would our lives be like now if that newspaper article never appeared? If there hadn’t been a billion-dollar fraud?
The daughter I so desperately loved might have grown up with a father. We would have raised our smart, funny, beautiful, irreverent little girl together.
Maybe we would have gotten our fairy tale, after all.
28
Tripp
Bile clawed at the back of my throat from the memory of the hurt on Jolie’s face—the hurt I had put there. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned the temperature even higher, sending rivulets of pain skating down my shoulder blades. Jolie could have been here with me, inside this shower that was easily big enough for two.
Instead I was alone, scrubbing the scent of her from my skin.
She probably would have left anyway, but I made sure of it.
My apartment was quiet when I got out of the shower. The kind of quiet that echoed, a silence that hoarded sadness and regret like the homeless in Central Park guarded their benches.
It was my thoughts that were loud, blaring in my mind like sirens.
Last night was supposed to be about having the last word.
Last night was supposed to be about sating my lust.
Last night was supposed to be . . .
I didn’t have a fucking clue anymore.
Because I didn’t want last night to be our last night.
What did I want?
If I could get over my pride, if we could get over our past—what did I want?
I wanted a lifetime filled with last nights.
Fuck.
Had
I just blown my last chance?
I got dressed and wandered into my office, realizing that I’d been so consumed by Jolie herself, I had forgotten why she’d contacted me—well, Lance—in the first place. At this point, she probably didn’t want anything from me, but at the very least, she was going to get peace of mind when it came to Francis Hughes.
As a foreign national who seemed to do the majority of his banking in Andorra, a tiny tax haven thumbprint of a country tacked between France and Spain, the source of Hughes’ wealth was hard to pin down.
Not a good sign. However, there was a fine line between questionable and corrupt. Gut instinct that someone was shady wasn’t enough. I needed evidence.
The monotonous process of analyzing spreadsheets and pouring through banking statements was a balm to my chaotic thoughts. An hour passed, then two.
When my phone rang, I snatched it up only to drop it like a hot rock the second I realized who was calling. I made it perfectly clear to my mother that I wasn't willing to reestablish any kind of relationship with her unless she cut ties with my father. Once she did that, she could contact my lawyer and I would get in touch when I was ready. But lately she'd been calling and texting and emailing, leaving short, pithy messages that didn't mention my father at all. Sure enough, after the call was dropped, a text message popped up.
Mom: This has gone on long enough, Tripp. Please call me.
I picked up the phone, deleted her message, and got back to work, building a program to capture every mention of Francis Hughes over the past ten years, including anyone he'd been linked with. According to Jolie, Hughes had invested in other untried entrepreneurs. Going on the theory that a man was known by the company he keeps, what would I learn from the people Francis had done business with?
Except that there were no partnerships. No investments.
Nothing but his name on a Connecticut PO Box and the lease of a small storefront in a strip mall. Having exhausted all other avenues of pursuit, I ran the address Hughes had provided in the leasing contract.
