And the other, soft feminine voice that joins in a moment later. “That went well, I thought. Don’t you?”
I can’t hear the mumbled reply through the rushing sound in my ears. But I do register the footsteps starting up the tile floors in my direction, at the far end of the hallway. Finally, belatedly, I spur myself into motion, moving faster than I could explain, if anyone were to stop me at this point.
I don’t care. The last thing I want to do is be caught here like this. Spying. Overhearing something I’m clearly not meant to overhear.
I make it to the elevator bank without incident, and hurry toward the opposite wing on the far side of the hall. Rooms 306-315, like a total idiot I failed to notice that on my first trip through this hall. Which is why I wound up overhearing something I wasn’t meant to hear, seeing something I shouldn’t have seen.
There’s a reflective mirror opposite the elevator bank. Just before I duck around the far corner, I catch a single glimpse in it.
Behind me, at the far end of the hallway, I glimpse Sheryl and Lark walking side-by-side. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, fresh out of marriage counseling. And, apparently, very much not divorced.
I can still hear him at the windswept beach he took me to, the beach where he claimed he’d never brought anyone else. I don’t want any secrets between us anymore, he said, his voice a low thrum, so real I can almost feel his breath against my neck, warm at the edge of my ear.
How could he? How could he say that, how could he make that promise? When all along, he knew he was harboring the biggest secret of all?
My stomach flips again, and I have to pause to lean back against the hard paneled wall of the therapists’ office, feeling sick to my stomach. Tears sting at the backs of my eyes. That nasty little voice returns triply loud, far worse than ever before.
You see? it hisses in my ear. I told you this was too good to be true. Of course a man like Lark could never fall for a girl like you. Nobody wants you.
I press my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound, all too aware of the distant ping of the elevator, the low chatter of Lark and Sheryl’s voices as they climb into it. I manage to hold it together until the voices disappear. Until I’m alone in the empty hallway, the minutes ticking away, my therapy appointment entirely forgotten.
Only then do I let the tears fall down my face, and the cries shake my shoulders.
Because right there and then, I realize what I need to do. Lark and I are over.
11
Cassidy
“I can’t get enough of you, Cassidy Marks. You know that?” The fire in Lark’s words is secondary only in heat to the sensation of his hot mouth, moving along the edge of my jaw. He catches the tip of my ear in his mouth, gently bites down until I gasp at the faint sting. Then he grins and keeps moving, his lips gliding down my neck, teeth grazing the delicate skin ever so lightly.
I arch up against him, but it’s no use. He has my hands pinned over my head, both wrists held in one single large hand of his. His body, lying atop mine, is so strong and steel-sturdy, every press of his perfectly chiseled abs digging into my soft curves. I can only twist a little beneath him, enjoying the complete loss of control, the way he’s in charge now, and oh, he knows exactly what to do.
He peels my shirt off with his free hand and uses it to tangle my hands to the headboard. I don’t mind, except for that it means I can’t trace my fingers along the edges of his muscles.
But it’s fine, because a second later, he drags his own shirt over his head and tosses it aside, his muscles gleaming in the moonlight that shines through my bedroom window.
“I’ve dreamt of you every damn night for so long,” he says, his voice low, thrumming with desire. “I’ve dreamt of all the places I want to touch you…” His hands brush my curves ever so slightly, making me tremble. “The places I want to kiss…”
His lips brush the hollow of my throat, the sharp juts of my collarbone. He flattens his tongue against my breastbone and traces it down, down, between my breasts. He cups them each in one hand, his palm rough against the smooth, supple skin. I can tell my nipples are already rock hard, but they only get stiffer when he rolls his tongue over to one breast and sucks my whole areola between his lips.
I moan, my back arching up off my sheets, which I can tell are already damp from sweat.
He laughs faintly, his breath a hot white gust against my chest, as he shifts to the other breast, his tongue swirling around it. “I love watching you react,” he tells me, smirking up at me.
From here, in the moonlight, those his deep green eyes snag on mine, impossible to look away from. He’s got the kind of gaze a girl could drown in. “Well,” I breathe, still trying to catch my breath, to make my lungs function normally. “You definitely know how to make me squirm.”
He grins at that, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Oh, I plan to do a lot more than that tonight.” His palm traces over my stomach, flattened against my curves. Down, down, until he reaches the fabric of my thin panties. When did he take off my pants? I don’t even remember. The whole world has gone hazy at the edges, and I have eyes only for this man.
For all the dirty things he does to me at night.
“I want to hear you screaming my name by the end of this,” he says, voice low and thrumming with urgent energy.
Then he hooks a thumb under the edge of my panties, nudges them down my thighs, and I gasp as the cool evening air hits my bare pussy. God, I can already tell I’m wet. But the situation only grows more urgent as Lark bends to kiss my navel, his tongue flicking into the narrow hole there, his 5 o’clock shadow grazing my smooth stomach, making me tickle and squirm.
He kisses his way lower, until his beard grazes the top of my mound. I gasp, and he grins up at me, unrepentant. “Yes,” he says, his voice a command. “More of that.” Then he flicks his tongue over my clit, expertly, because God knows he’s always been able to find it more easily than any other man I’ve ever slept with.
I arch up off the bed, and he takes advantage of the motion, sliding both hands underneath me to grip my ass tightly in his fists.
He licks my inner thigh, from just above my knee, all the way up to the crease where my leg meets my hip. Then, before I can twist and press my hip closer to his face, he pulls back, licking up the other leg the same way. Slow. Torturously so.
“Dammit, Lark,” I murmur, my head drifting back toward the pillow.
“Did you expect me not to tease you into oblivion tonight?” He clicks his tongue, smirking. “You know me better than that by now, Cassidy.”
When he dips again, he spreads both my legs with firm, strong hands. Then he traces his tongue along the outer lips of my pussy, slow, savoring.
“I always forget how incredible you taste,” he murmurs, just before he parts my pussy lips with two rough fingertips, and presses his tongue between, lapping at me, tracing the tip of his tongue around and around my entrance.
My groan turns into a moan, and I twist against the sheets, my hips bucking toward his face.
He lets me, and I wrap both thighs around his face, pressing myself up against him, so I can feel the brush of his beard against my inner thighs, rough, almost tickling, in comparison to that fucking tongue of his.
The tongue that he’s pressing deep into my folds now, lapping back and forth along the length of my slit.
“Louder,” he orders, but he doesn’t need to tell me twice. He pushes the tip of his tongue inside me, and I moan loud enough that I’m surprised my downstairs neighbors don’t pound on the floorboards. Then he swirls that tongue inside me, and I buck and twist, before I settle into a rocking motion, arching up off the bed and against his face as he pushes his tongue further into me, until his lips are pressed against my pussy lips, his tongue deep inside me, curled and stroking along my inner walls.
He hits my G-spot, and my breath hitches. I’m saying something, begging him to keep going, but I can hardly even process my own voice through the fog of pleasure in my brain.
Just when I’m at the edge though, right on the brink of orgasm, he pulls his tongue out of me. I groan in protest. “Lark,” I start, but he’s already over me, naked too, and when did he lose his pants? Normally I love that part. Watching him slowly strip, until his cock is bare before me, thick and throbbing and ready for me.
Just like he is now.
He positions himself at my entrance with a sly look. “I need to fuck you now, Cassidy. I cannot wait another fucking second,” he says. He pushes into me, a slow, smooth motion that makes my moans turn into faint little cries of pleasure.
The way he stretches me, fills me… I’ve never felt like this before. As if I’m so completely full, all the way up.
He lies down along me, and I know I’m sticky with sweat, but so is he, the mingled scent of our bodies and our sex filling the room as he grips my hips, his lips colliding with mine, his tongue parting my lips so that I taste my own juices on his mouth.
When he draws back, it’s only to lock gazes with me, his intent and intense as ever. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes, which throws me for a second, because haven’t we been doing it all night?
But then he’s pulling out, thrusting back into me, and I lose track of our conversation of words.
At some point he must have untied my hands, because I have use of them again. I wrap them around his strong torso, my legs around his hips, and I pull him down against me, thrusting my hips up against his to drive his cock deeper with every thrust.
He starts to move faster, harder. Losing all control. I love this part, watching him lose it.
“God.” He runs a hand through my hair, then grabs a fistful and pulls my head to the side, bending to bite at my neck gently, before he kisses it, alternately biting, kissing, until I know he’s going to leave a mark. He pulls back just far enough to laugh faintly, his breath ghosting over the heated skin he just bruised. “I wanted to make sure you’d remember this,” he says.
As if I could forget.
But he’s moving faster, harder again, and I buck against him, thrusting in time with him, until the whole bed is slamming into the wall, over and over, and the orgasm rushes toward me again, my clit already throbbing from his earlier ministrations. His cock seems to hit just the right angle every time, my G-spot thrilling with sensation. I let out a strangled cry, as the orgasm sweeps through my body, a rush of pleasure all the way from my scalp down to my toes.
It seems to go on and on. I can feel myself tightening around him, convulsive, feel the deep ache of his cock as he continues to fuck me, close to his own finish. His breath speeds up, his heart races against mine, and—
Buzz.
I inhale sharply, my eyes snapping open.
I’m alone in my bed, the sheets tangled around my naked body, soaked in sweat. At least some of the dream was right. I groan and sit up, rubbing at my temple where it throbs.
Oh, right. Hangover. Because I spent last night with Becky drinking wine in my living room. Because I’d been refusing to hang out with her for weeks, because at first I was busy all the time with work, and then, for the last week…
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, as reality hits me. The same way it’s been doing every morning for the last seven days. Every time I wake up, all I want to do is plunge back into sleep. At least when I’m sleeping, I don’t have to face reality. I don’t have to deal with the fact that Lark—my Lark, the first man I’ve connected with in years, the first man I’ve ever had chemistry like this with…
Is a married man. He’s taken. And whatever messy split or makeup he’s in the middle of, I cannot get involved.
No matter how much it makes my heart hurt to walk away. I did it because it was the right thing to do.
Another buzz sounds through the apartment, and I groan again, louder. Dammit. Who’s here? I roll out of bed and fish around under my bed for a night shirt. I must have taken it off myself in the throes of my stupid sex dream.
I’ve been having them more and more. Every night since I called things off with Lark. I’d been too chickenshit to do it in person, especially since he nearly caught me in the hallway of the therapists’ offices. I’d gone to visit a therapist in order to take better care of myself, to figure out my own relationship issues, and why I have such low self-esteem.
Instead, ironically, I found a fresh reminder of exactly why, when I stumbled across Lark and his supposedly ex-wife Sheryl leaving couples’ counseling, answering to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.
That same night, I texted him. I can’t do this anymore.
Since then, he’s called and texted dozens of times. I hit ignore every time, deleted the texts unread. Better not to even slightly tempt myself.
Eventually, I know, I’ll have to see him again for work. Anderson Investments, which Lark and Sheryl co-own, remains my little makeup startup company’s biggest—and only—investor. But thankfully, for the last week, it’s been Sheryl who’s sent me emails asking for updates; Sheryl who’s written to let me know about upcoming events and orders that I’ll need to work on; Sheryl who’s become my main point of contact.
I don’t know if that’s because she told Lark she wanted to take over, or because Lark asked her to after taking the hint that I don’t want to see him. Either way, at least it’s giving me time to get over him. To get over the stupid fantasies I’d started to have, the dreams that maybe this time, this relationship, might be different…
Another buzz at the front door. “I’m coming,” I grumble, and pad out into the living room to hit the button that will open the downstairs door. The speaker is broken, so I have no idea who I just let in. Not until the doorbell rings, and my headache starts to throb again, double-time.
“Good morning!” exclaims Becky, looking far too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a girl who spent last night drinking even more than I did, while I moped on my couch.
My new, beautiful designer couch, which Lark bought for me a few weeks ago, after the first night we spent together. He spilled makeup all over my old, ragged one.
When Becky complimented me on the new sofa last night, I almost burst into tears all over again.
Now, she shoves something at me. Pastries, I realize belatedly, taking in the scent of sugar and yeast coming from the box. “Figured you could use a pick-me-up before your big thing today.”
“My what?” I ask through the buzz in my ears, the throb between my temples. All I can think about is how embarrassed I am about the mess I was last night. Well. About that, and about the sex dream that woke me this morning.
God, even in my dreams that asshole knows how to make me come harder than anyone in my entire—
“Don’t you have the big TV thingie today?” Becky asks, a moue of concern on her face. “You mentioned it last night. Before our impromptu cursing of He Who Shall Not Be Named and everything he did to you.”
It’s coming back to me, slowly. Becky insisting that since it was a full moon, we should stick our heads off of my fire escape and howl at the moon, demanding it curse Lark Anderson with bad sex for a decade, in retribution for him hurting me.
My face flushes bright red. God, I hope none of the neighbors heard the details.
Then I process the rest of her sentence. TV interview. On the Right Now Show. With Jackie Shells, international supermodel, who thanks to some convincing from Sheryl—and a heap of samples of the makeup from me—has just recently agreed to become the face of my makeup brand.
Sorry. Our makeup brand.
And that’s in… I check the clock over my stove top, heart pounding. Less than two hours. “Shit.” I practically race toward the bedroom.
Becky watches me go with a smirk. “Relax,” she calls over the sounds of me tearing through my closet for the outfit I have all planned out, but which I’d forgotten to actually lay out last night. Because I hadn’t been planning on getting roaring drunk. I hadn’t planned on being so distracted all this week that I forgot about the most important interview I’ll probably ever have in my
entire life.
“The Right Now studio’s only a twenty minute drive from here,” Becky calls into the bedroom. “I’ll drive you. I’m just parked downstairs.”
“I was going to get there early and run through prep questions,” I exclaim. “I was going to talk to Sheryl for like an hour beforehand. Fuck!” I realize the skirt I wanted to wear is crumpled up in the laundry hamper.
Becky knocks at the door jam. “Can I help?”
I let out a sigh and hold up the pressed blouse I think will look good with my skin tone on television, in mute supplication.
“Need to match this?” she asks, and I nod, knowing that I look even more pitiful right now than I did last night. Becky takes the blouse from my hands. “Go eat your croissant, ok? There’s coffee too, it’s on the counter. I’ll handle this.”
Mutely, I follow her advice and make a beeline into the living room. The sun’s already peering through my curtains. I overslept by a long shot. But Becky’s right. The studio is nearby. And they’ll want to do all my makeup themselves anyway, so at least I don’t have to worry about that part of the morning routine.
I open the box of pastries and dig into the chocolate croissant, pausing only for desperate gulps of coffee. By the time I finish both, the worst of the hangover has worn off, chased away by the miracle of caffeine and sugar mingled sprinkled with adrenaline.
I’ve just about convinced myself that I can handle this after all—I can nail this interview, seal my place as one of the big up-and-coming names to watch in the makeup world, and impress Jackie Shells to boot—when my phone pings with a new message. It’s from Sheryl. No doubt asking me what time I’m getting to the studio, since if I know her, she’s already there obsessively early, walking her way through prep.
It is from Sheryl. But it’s not the message I’m expecting. Not by a long shot.
Sorry to do this at the last moment, she writes, but something’s come up. Urgent board meeting for another corporation that I can’t miss. Don’t worry, though. You’ll have plenty of support at the interview. I’ll be sending Lark in my place.
Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance Page 24
