Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance

by Wylder, Penny

  “That’s it, Cassidy,” he says, his voice a low thrum of command. “Come for me.”

  I’m so near the edge he doesn’t need to tell me twice. I let out a cry, and he continues to thrust into me, fucking me so that the orgasm spikes through my veins, and the pleasure keeps coming, starts to build again as he pounds into me.

  I lose track of time, of space. By the time Lark releases my hands to grab my hips, near his own edge, I’m close to coming again myself. I reach up to wrap my arms around him, my legs tightening around his torso. I dig my nails into the fine muscles of his back, and he pulls me up off the seat with the force of his thrusts.

  “I want to feel you come,” I pant against his shoulder. “In me.”

  It doesn’t take much more asking than that. Lark growls and reaches down to grip my ass hard with one hand, his other tight around my hip. He thrusts into me again, again, and his gaze flicks to mine. He lets out a groan that turns into my name as he finishes, deep in me, still thrusting his hips, and I arch up against him, tightening my pussy around him, trying to milk every last drop.

  When he finally sags against me, both of us slick with sweat, a pleasant, relaxed sensation spreads through my whole body, tingling and numbing at once. He leans up to kiss me again, and I can taste my own sweat on his lips. Then he leans back, smiling.

  “Let’s go home,” he says, simple as that.

  * * *

  We wind up wrapped in sheets in his bed, an enormous pizza between us, and the cheesiest horror movie I have ever been subjected to playing on TV.

  “They are not about to go toward that sound!” I protest, waving at the screen.

  Beside me, Lark laughs and tucks me harder against his side. “It wouldn’t be a proper horror movie if humans didn’t act like they’d had their brains surgically removed,” he points out.

  I elbow him playfully, and he leans over to tickle me in retribution, which makes me squirm away, although not before I grab another slice of pizza. “You’re the worst,” I tell him, then take an enormous bite. It makes a faint string of cheese melt down my chin, and Lark arches an eyebrow, watching me, amused.

  “I’m the worst? You’re the one getting grease on my sheets.”

  I flush, and glance down, worried he’s right, but he only laughs.

  “Kidding. Anyway, if we do stain them, more reason to get the maid service in tomorrow.” He shrugs and leans back on the bed, stretching out, unconcerned.

  After a moment more of hesitation, still a little paranoid I’ve spilled pizza sauce on his sheets, even though he clearly doesn’t mind paying to get them cleaned, I follow his lead and nestle back up beside him, just in time for the last remaining virgin on screen to be eaten by a monster.

  I groan. “See? I told her not to follow that noise! Why do the women always die first? Women definitely would be the smarter ones in an actual apocalypse.”

  Lark snorts. “But then how else would we motivate our leading male to go save the day? Clearly the ladies are just there as props for his growth.” Heavy sarcasm drips from his tone.

  I smirk at him. “Someone’s a closet feminist.”

  “There’s nothing closet about it.” He wraps an arm around my waist and drags me even closer to him, until I’m practically in his lap, pizza and all. I protest, but he ignores me and kisses my neck, my shoulder. “Women are the better half of the species, I’ve long since accepted this. And I treat them as such.” With another wicked grin, he reaches around me to press his lips to mine.

  I sink back against him, a pleasant warmth flooding my belly, all the way out to my limbs.

  I’ve never done something like this with a guy. Just hung out in bed and watched cheesy movies. There’s something about Lark that not only excites me, but also makes me feel like I can relax around him. Truly be myself. I’ve never felt this way with another guy—certainly not with Norman, or any of the other people I dated briefly here and there.

  I can’t help but wonder… maybe this time, things really will be different. In a good way.

  9

  Cassidy

  The next day, Lark refuses to let me work. “You just spent weeks breaking your back to meet all those deadlines,” he tells me, in between nipping and licking his way down my body that morning.

  It’s my new favorite way to wake up, I have to admit.

  “Today, you’re taking some time off,” he insists. “Not just for yourself. For me too.” He winks. Then he pushes his face between my thighs, and that pretty much settles it.

  After a long, slow, languorous wake-up—which involves several failed attempts to actually make it out of bed—we finally get dressed and head out of the apartment. Lark won’t tell me where he’s taking me, but there are some clues. For one, the big cooler of drinks he packs, along with a blanket. For another, the towels I spot rolled up in his trunk, beside which he tucks everything.

  We live near the shore, but I never actually go to the beach much. I mean to, especially in summer, but it’s always such a production to do it—and I’m always so busy with work—that I rarely get around to it.

  Which is why it surprises me when Lark drives us further up the coast than I’ve ventured before, past all the familiar and touristy beaches that I’m used to visiting.

  “I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” is all he’ll tell me, whenever I ask.

  The further we drive from the city, the fresher the air outside feels. I roll it down, and we both sing along, out of tune, to the songs playing on the radio. Every time I steal a glance over at him, I catch him doing the same to me, and we both laugh, hearts lighter than I think they’ve ever been. At least I know mine is.

  When he rests his hand on the gear shift—because of course his fancy BMW is manual, and he goes on at length about how much better they are to drive and handle—I let my hand rest over his, and he turns his palm up, laces his fingers through mine.

  His thumb strokes the back of my hand, and just that simple motion is enough to set off a fresh cascade of butterflies in my stomach.

  By the time we turn off the road, I’m teasing him. “We’re lost aren’t we?”

  “Have a little faith,” he fires back, before he pulls my hand up to his mouth and turns it upright, spreading my fingers to kiss my open palm. That touch. I feel heat all the way down into my belly, and hot between my thighs. I shift against the seat, trying not to let the flush creep up my neck to my face. And probably failing completely, to judge by the little smirk he aims in my direction.

  Then I notice the road we’re winding down, and my lips part in surprise. The road winds down the edge of the cliffs at this part of the shoreline, growing narrower with every zig and zag. My stomach drops at the sight of the drop. But even more than that, at the bottom…

  “Where is this?” I ask, my eyebrows climbing my forehead. I’ve lived here—or at least, within a short drive of here—my entire life, and I’ve never been to this part of the coast. The beach at the bottom is small, but beautiful. It’s cupped between two sheer cliff faces, a little slice of white sand that looks like the Caribbean. The water, I know, will be colder, but still, from here it’s a gorgeous, deep blue.

  “I found it when I was a teenager,” he explains, as we reach the last loop of road. There’s not even a parking lot, really. Just a small gravel turnaround, with no marked signs. He parks at the very end of the road and turns to meet my gaze. “The summer after my dad died, I used to come here all the time to think.”

  “Oh, I didn’t… I’m so sorry, Lark.” I squeeze his hand.

  He just smiles. “It was a long time ago. I still miss him, but…” He squeezes back. “Whenever I would come here, and lie on the sand just watching the waves…” He glances away from me again, out over the water. “I used to feel connected to him again, you know? To something bigger than myself.”

  I follow his gaze, out over the sea. The waves are big—this beach would be a surfer’s dream. But I’m glad we have it all to ourselves. It feels like we’v
e escaped to a private world, just the two of us, and here, we can be anyone we want to be. Here, whatever this is growing between us doesn’t need to be complicated or messy. We can just… be.

  “I can see that,” I murmur, and Lark flashes me a smile.

  “Come on.” He steps out and crosses to open my door before I can even reach for it. I laugh when he does—I’m not used to guys treating me like this, opening doors for me. But he insists. He also insists on carrying everything, despite me offering to help with the umbrella at least, multiple times.

  I trail him down to the shoreline, and together we lay out the blanket, and he digs the umbrella into the sand while I open the cooler. “Champagne?” I laugh. “Is that a beach drink?”

  “It is when you have something to celebrate,” he replies, after he’s finished aligning the umbrella to give us the best shade. He drops down beside me, and pops the cork to pour us both glasses. He even brought proper champagne flutes, albeit the plastic kind, I assume so we don’t break glass here on the beach.

  When he’s finished, he holds out my glass, and raises his own.

  “What are we celebrating?” I ask, my eyes sparkling with amusement.

  “Easy.” He taps his glass against mine. “Us finding each other. You’re easily the best thing to happen to me in years, Cassidy. I want you to know that.”

  My heart skips. I conceal my pleased flush with a long sip of champagne. It’s delicious, the bubbles tickling my nose on the way down. Then I dig my toes into the sand and glance out over the water. The waves are big today, wild and cascading. But the sound those big waves make is relaxing, more than anything. A crash and shush, over and over, that would lull me to sleep in a heartbeat if I let it.

  “Did you used to come here with Sheryl?” I ask, because I’m an idiot, and apparently I can’t just let myself enjoy good moments.

  Lark glances over at me, his eyes unreadable in the reflected sunlight off the water. “No,” he says, after a quiet pause. “I’ve never brought anyone else here. I wanted to keep it to myself; it’s always been my private place to think.”

  Holding his gaze, my heartbeat quickens. “Why bring me, then?”

  He sets his champagne aside. Then he reaches out to take mine, and tucks it into the sand, before he leans in to cup my chin, drawing my face toward his, until we’re mere inches apart, his breath a tickle over my lips. “Because I want you to know me. And because I want to know you, too, Cassidy. All of you. I don’t want any secrets between us anymore.”

  “Neither do I.” My eyes jump back and forth between us. “What you see with me is what you get.”

  “And you’re mine,” he breathes. It’s not a question. A statement, one that sends a thrill through me.

  “Yes,” I murmur, because it feels like I should answer him anyway. We’re so close. Another centimeter and our lips would touch. I tilt my face up, but he doesn’t kiss me. Not yet.

  “Just as I’m yours. I promise, Cassidy.” Only then does he kiss me, slow and sensuous. Before, our kisses had been searing fire, electricity. This one is more like lava, a slow burn that spreads throughout my entire body. I wind my hands through his hair, and for a moment, we’re the only two people in the world, here in our private bubble. Here where nothing can touch us.

  It feels like the moment lasts forever, the whole day stretching out before us, and beyond that, the weeks, the months. We have all the time in the world, I think in that moment.

  What a fool I was.

  10

  Cassidy

  I stand outside the therapist’s office, pacing back and forth, trying to build up my courage. I didn’t tell Lark I was coming here today, or any of my friends. Hell, I barely even admitted to myself what I was planning to do, until I showed up in the parking lot this morning with the appointment penciled into my planner.

  Lark and I have been going out for a couple of weeks now. We haven’t given it a label or anything. I don’t want to rush this. I want to savor every minute. But ever since that day at the beach, we’ve spent nearly every night together, either at my apartment or more often at his—his bed is just bigger. It’s more practical.

  But more than once, I catch my old self peering through. It doesn’t matter how many times Lark tells me he cares about me, or how often he says he’s never met a woman like me. That voice in the back of my head, the one that was already prevalent since long before I met Norman, but which only got worse over the duration of our relationship, returns to hiss in my ear.

  He doesn’t really love you. He can’t. There’s no way a man like him will ever be interested in a girl like you for long.

  It’s all bullshit. I know it’s bullshit. But at my weakest moments, alone in my apartment after Lark leaves in the mornings, or when I’m out on a run near his apartment and eying all the other perfect mothers dressed in designer clothing with their tight, fit, skinny bodies, I can’t help but hear that voice again.

  So, I finally decided to do something about it. Or at least, ask someone what I can do. I don’t really know how all this works. The receptionist on the phone was super polite and nice, but I’ve never talked to a therapist before. I have no idea what she’s going to say.

  Maybe she’ll confirm my worst fears. Tell me I really am unlovable, or that I’m just doing the same thing with Lark that I’ve done in previous relationships—throwing myself into a messy situation because I can’t handle dating someone who’s nice and normal and available.

  It’s not that messy, I argue to myself.

  Right, argues the nasty voice straight back. You’re just working with him and his ex-wife both, all while secretly sleeping with him. After you promised her there was nothing between you two.

  I haven’t talked to Sheryl much since our lunch outing the one time. Lark seems to have taken over handling my company—or rather, he seems to have always been the most involved one, and these days Sheryl’s given up on keeping up. I have the occasional phone call with her, but it’s cursory, just check-ins and making sure I know what’s up next on the docket.

  After the big photoshoot at the magazine, which turned out to be a big hit, orders have been flooding in from all over the world. The next goal will be for me to ramp up production to keep up with those orders. Sheryl and Lark gave me funding and full discretion over what manufacturing company I want to partner with as I ramp up, and I’ve spent all my work time over the last week interviewing different factories. I know I want to work with a green company, one that pays their employees a fair wage and will only use organic products in my makeup, ones that haven’t been tested on animals.

  That, it turns out, narrows my field of potential manufacturers by a lot.

  But earlier this week, Lark and I met with a company based nearby, which met all of those criteria. Right away, I fell in love with the way they do business. It didn’t hurt that the woman who led us on the tour was friendly, smart, and answered all of my questions without batting an eyelash.

  By the end of the day, Lark and I stepped aside to talk about the decision in hushed whispers, and I was bright-eyed with enthusiasm. “It’s got to be her,” I insisted.

  “You know best,” he told me, with a wink. “But, if you asked my opinion, I’d agree.” Then he called Sheryl for me, to talk her into the idea.

  I was grateful for his unyielding support. I’m grateful for Sheryl’s, too, although during my few phone conversations with her, I always come away feeling nauseous with guilt.

  She doesn’t know about Lark and me yet. Lark keeps asking me when we can tell her. He doesn’t want to sneak around anymore. He wants to be able to declare his affection for me out in the open.

  But I can’t stop thinking about the lunch I had with Sheryl. The promise I made her. There’s nothing between me and him. It was a lie then, and it’s become a worse one now.

  So, before we break the news, I wanted to get myself right. See this therapist, talk through my own past issues. Maybe then I’ll be up to facing the truth, to going offi
cial with Lark before the whole world.

  With one more deep breath, I start up the steps into the office. There are at least half a dozen floors, and the map inside the entrance is confusing as hell. I wind up wandering in circles down the end of one hallway, completely lost. The floor map says I’m looking for room 312, but this is room 305, and the corridor dead-ends here. Behind me are rooms 300-305, and beyond that just the elevator bank.

  With a suppressed groan, I get ready to double back, when one of the doors nearby creaks open half an inch. There’s a woman standing in the doorway with her back to me, talking.

  “I think we really made some great progress today,” she’s saying, in that voice I’ve come to recognize as the TV therapists’ voice. Calm and soothing.

  The door that’s partially open reads Marital Counseling in black block letters, along with the name of a therapist beneath it, a Dr. Ann Latrobe.

  “Just work on the exercises I’ve assigned to you, and I’ll see you both back here next week,” she continues, still audible as I cross past the door and continue up the hallway, most of my attention focused on the door numbers, searching for my own entrance.

  Someone within the room, a man, murmurs quietly, followed by another woman, and then the door fully opens, the doctor’s bright voice growing louder in the hallway behind me.

  “Always a pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson,” she’s saying.

  My heart skids in my chest. Leaps into my throat.

  But I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. It’s a common name, after all. There are probably dozens of Andersons in this city alone.

  Except then I hear the reply. In a low, devastatingly familiar voice. “We’ll see you next week, same time.”

  No. My feet have stopped moving. I realize I should keep walking, get out of sight. But I can’t force myself to step forward, can’t force my legs to function. I’ve forgotten all about the room I’m looking for, or in fact why I’m even here myself. All I can think about is that voice.