“Me, too. I’m almost there.”
“Put another finger inside you.” I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Time stood still. The world consisted of my cock and her coaxing, teasing, angelic voice. Sweat beaded across my forehead. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Pretend it’s my dick. I’m fucking you hard.”
“Oh, God. Yes. Yes.” Her breathing stuttered, and the sweetest moan I’d ever heard brought me to climax. “I’m coming, Carter.”
“Fuck. Jo.” I groaned, low and deep, milking my shaft. The powerful orgasm shook my body. My thighs twitched and my legs jerked. Until now, sex had been a routine act to escape boredom or release anger. Never had it been this cathartic. I collapsed against the pillow, amazed and disoriented. “Jesus.”
“That was unbelievable,” she said in a breathy whisper. Her voice turned lazy and sated, like a kitten who’d drank too much cream. “I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah, me too.” The tension in my muscles faded away, replaced by warmth. My eyelids sagged. “Damn, I didn’t know you had that in you. I’ve seriously underestimated you, Hollander.”
“I need to go.” In the space of a few heartbeats, her voice turned distant. Wasn’t that what I wanted? No commitment. Just sex. I repeated the words over and over in my head. If this was the perfect scenario, then why did I feel so disappointed to end the call?
“Sleep tight, kitten,” I said.
“Good night, Carter.”
It took all my self-control to stay away from the coffee shop the next day and the day after that. I went to my mom’s house instead. She lived in an extravagant home on the upper west side. I hated going there, but I did it anyway, because she was my mom, and I loved her. The guard at the entrance to Forest Hills waved me through the tall, wrought iron gates. I followed the curving drive past manicured lawns, enormous houses, and a snooty golf course.
Mom met me at the front door, all smiles and tears. “Where have you been? It’s been ages. I was just telling your father that you never call or come over anymore. Give your mother a hug.”
Funny how a five-foot-nothing woman could make me feel small. “Sorry. Business. You know.” I wrapped my arms around her petite frame and lifted her off the floor. She laughed and pressed a kiss to my cheek.
“Put me down, you big lug.” She wriggled until I set her gently on the marble tiles.
“You look nice,” I said, holding her at arm’s length and giving her the once over. At forty-eight she was still a handsome woman, trim and curvaceous. When I was a kid, my friends had loved to visit my house to see Honey Wilkes, my “hot mom,” the MILF who’d starred in a rock music video. “Is this a new dress?”
“Do you like it?” She smoothed her hands over the skirt.
“Very nice. Are you going somewhere? Did I come at a bad time?” The moment I spoke, I wished I could retract the questions. She avoided my gaze, but her secretive smile was the only answer I needed. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. “Is he coming over?”
“Yes. He should be here any minute.” Excitement lilted her words. She brushed her hands through her hair, turning to preen in the mirror beside us.
Sometimes I hated my mom. The way she hung on my father’s every word. The way she lived to please him. Mostly, I hated my father, because he didn’t give a shit about her. He didn’t care that she spent his money on clothes and plastic surgery in an effort to keep his attention. He didn’t care that she waited by the phone for hours, hoping he’d call or toss a morsel of affection in her direction. All he wanted was a warm and willing woman in his bed whenever or wherever he dictated.
“Mom, why are you still with this guy? He’s a dick. You don’t need him. Give him the boot.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Carter, don’t be silly. I’ll never leave your father.”
“Is it the money?” I caught her hand in mine, forcing her to look at me. “Because you don’t need it. I’ll take care of you. I have more than enough for the both of us.”
“Carter, stop it.” Her tone turned angry. She pulled her hand from mine, her expression hardening. “It’s not about the money. I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve never been in love.”
“The way he treats you—that’s not love,” I growled.
“Not another word.” After a deep breath, her features relaxed, a well-rehearsed softness replacing the irritation. “This is going to be wonderful. I can’t wait to have both my men in the house at the same time.” She turned enormous, hopeful blue eyes up to me. “Say you’ll stay.”
“Okay.” I could never disappoint her. That was his job. “Just for a little while.”
I didn’t have time to leave anyway, because the door latch clicked two seconds later and my father walked into the foyer, looking imposing in an immaculate black suit, white shirt, and red tie. If I had my way, I’d deny any relationship to him, but it was impossible when I was a carbon copy of him. He turned gold-brown eyes to me and lifted an eyebrow in his signature smartass smirk. I was taller by an inch or two, so I stared down my nose at him, refusing to be intimidated.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” The predatory gaze raked over my long hair, beard, and cargo pants, brimming with disapproval. “Hello, Honey.” He leaned in so Mom could kiss his cheek. She hovered around him like a butterfly, taking his suit jacket, loosening his tie, peppering his cheek with kisses. He shooed her away with a wave of his fingers. Hurt flickered in her eyes. “Get me a scotch, would you, babe?”
Hatred bubbled through my veins. His casual dismissal scraped over my nerves like sandpaper. I was used to being derided and ignored. Watching him degrade my mother was another thing entirely. He pushed past me and moved into the living room, his polished Italian shoes thudding softly on the tile, their shiny black leather reflecting the gilt surfaces and brilliant chandeliers overhead.
“Sit, Mom. I’ll get it.” I took her by the elbow and guided her toward the sofa.
“Oh, you’re so good to me,” she said, smiling again. “Thank you. I’ll have a vodka tonic please.”
I went to the bar, happy for the distraction. By the time I was ten years old, I’d become an accomplished bartender, serving at my mother’s cocktail parties, amusing her bohemian guests. She sat beside my father, one hand on his forearm, the other stroking his hair. I watched their reflections in the bar mirror. My father pulled her in tight for a deep kiss. My stomach twisted.
“I need you to pack a bag, Honey. I booked you a room at my hotel in Monte Carlo. I’ve got some business there, and I want you with me,” he said.
“Oh, I can’t wait. I’ve never been to Monte Carlo.” Mom beamed up at him. I understood what this meant. She’d be squirreled away in a hotel room, waiting for his beck and call, while he ignored her.
He smoothed his tie and smiled down at her before shifting his gaze back to me. “So to what do I owe this honor, Carter?”
“I’m here to see Mom, not you.”
“Carter.” Mom frowned, adding to my unease. It was one thing to irritate my father, another thing to upset her. “Be nice.”
I handed their drinks to them and poured two fingers of tequila for myself. I didn’t usually drink this early in the day, but encounters with my father called for an exception.
“It’s okay, Honey. I wouldn’t expect any less from him.” Sunlight shafted through the velvet drapes and caught the silver threads in his brown hair when he cocked his head. “Still chasing the bad guys? I heard about Benson. Great job. You took a predator off the street.”
“Thanks.” I choked back a lifetime of resentment for Mom’s sake. “I’m surprised you noticed.”
“I like to know what my family is up to.” His fingers stroked along my mother’s thigh. “You’re doing quite well with your business, I hear.”
“It’s fine.” I bristled, instantly on the defensive.
“And you invested in an apartment complex. I see you’re putting my money to good use.”
“My money,” I replied, l
eveling my gaze on his.
My mother, for all her flaws, had insisted on a paternity test when she’d become pregnant. After lengthy negotiations, my father had set aside a trust fund for me—a very big, very generous sum. The money meant nothing to him; he was one of the wealthiest men in the country. His marriage and political career, however, meant everything. I became the dirty little secret, the bastard son of a senator and his mistress.
“Right,” he said. He turned to my mom and stroked a hand down her cheek. “I’m going upstairs. Say goodbye to Carter and be quick. I’ve only got an hour.” With a little growl, he smacked her on the ass, making her squeal. My fingers curled into fists. Why couldn’t she see through his actions? Why did she let him treat her like a whore? A dozen times before, I’d begged her to leave him, but she’d only laughed, giving me the brush off like today.
“Okay.” Mom didn’t even look at me. “Bye-bye, Carter. Call me, sweetie.”
“I’ll show myself out,” I said to no one in particular, because they were already moving up the stairs.
I sat in my car for a few minutes before I left, too angry to be on the road. This was the reason I didn’t do relationships. This was the reason I never spent the night with a woman, and this was the reason I never called the next day. Because no one would ever use me the way my father used my mother. No one. She loved him with some kind of misguided, lopsided obsession. Watching her love him killed me in a way I hadn’t known possible, because he didn’t love her back. He didn’t love anyone but himself.
Chapter 12
Jo
The days passed in a haze of broken espresso machines, late bakery deliveries, and past due utility bills. I struggled to make ends meet, keeping the problems of the coffee shop to myself, not wanting to burden my father. In the few spare moments I managed to scrape together, my thoughts turned to Carter, our glorious fuck in the garage, and our naughty phone sex. I replayed them over and over in my head, wearing them out until they were faded and thin like an old letter. Those moments had been hot, dirty, and perfect; everything I needed. So why did I want more? Why couldn’t I be content to let things stand?
At night, I left my phone by the bed, waiting for Carter’s late night text, the one that never came. I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t want a relationship with him. Loneliness fueled my fantasies. A couple of times, I opened a text message to him but deleted it before sending. Did I really want to start something I had no intention of finishing? By the next morning, I managed to convince myself that it was for the best.
After I closed shop on Friday, I met Bronte and Rhett at a local diner for a late lunch. They were crammed into a small booth by the front window. In the seat across from the couple, a familiar head and broad shoulders rose above the backrest of the bench. My heart skipped a beat. Shuttered brown eyes met mine; the flecks of gold dimmed. My initial excitement at seeing him fizzled and sputtered into confusion.
“Hey,” I said lightly and slid into the seat beside him. I rubbed sweaty palms over my denim skirt. Turbulence rolled off him in waves, causing my stomach to churn.
“Hey, sis.” Bronte smiled at me. Carter grunted and stared straight ahead. Rhett nodded, his mouth full of buttermilk biscuit.
We talked about the weather, sports scores, and the latest Hollywood scandal. Or, I should say, the three of us talked. Carter remained mute. His broody silence filled the space between us until I wanted to scream from the tension. At the end of the meal, he picked up the tab for everyone and headed toward the restroom at the back of the diner. I said goodbye to Rhett and Bronte before following him.
I leaned against the wall in the hallway and waited for him to come out. Had I done something wrong? Was he angry about the way we’d left things? In my opinion, the hookup had been perfect, but maybe he didn’t feel the same way. My temper simmered at a low boil, threatening to overflow. It was his idea to be friends. If we were going to continue hanging out with Rhett and Bronte, I needed answers.
The bathroom door opened, and Carter came out. He froze, startled by my appearance, before brushing past me. I stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“What’s the deal?” I asked. “You haven’t spoken to me since I got here. Are you mad at me?”
“No.” His lion eyes leveled on me, still blank, still shuttered.
“Then why are you being rude? If it’s because of what happened the other night, you can stop worrying. I’m not one of those clingy types. It was good. Better than good. But it’s not going to happen again.”
“Okay.” One corner of his mouth trembled, like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite make the leap.
“Alright then.” My hands shook. I pressed them against my hips so he wouldn’t see.
“I’ve got some shit going on,” he said, cocking his head. “But none of it has anything to do with you.” At the base of his neck, his pulse pounded, sure and steady. I wanted to press a kiss there. It took all of my self-control to stop myself. He moistened his lips, his gaze thirsty. “The phone sex—it was a real surprise.” His voice dropped lower, scratching the itch deep inside me. “I liked it.”
The walls of the narrow hallway pressed in on us. Only a few inches existed between my breasts and the hard muscles of his chest. To the left was the kitchen, to the right a coat rack, and at my back was a closet door. Carter filled the remaining space. My skin tingled from his proximity.
Oh, no. No. I swallowed against the dryness in my mouth. His gaze dipped to my lips and slowly crawled to my eyes. Lightning zipped into my core. No, no, no. I drew in a deep breath, trying to center myself, and got a lungful of leather and citrus. My inner walls clenched, hard enough to make my thighs tremble. I bit the inside of my cheek, hoping the pain would extinguish the sexual attraction coursing through my veins.
“No.” I whispered the word aloud, as a warning to myself, while my body screamed yes.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice cracked and broken. It was only one word, but I knew exactly what he meant. He felt it too, the strong pull of desire. It happened every time he came around; all the promises I made to myself flew out the window.
“Yes.” I repeated, entranced by his closeness.
One of his hands slipped behind my waist and turned the doorknob. The door gave way on silent hinges. He walked me backward into the closet. The door closed. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could make out the shapes of brooms and dustpans and shelves lined with cleaners.
“Are you sure?” he asked. His big hands roamed down my arms, along my ribcage, up my back.
“Yes.” Oh, Lord, I’d never been more certain in my life. My panties were soaked at the thought, my body brought to life by his touch.
Someone walked down the hall and paused outside the closet door. We stilled, our eyes meeting in understanding. This needed to be stealthy and silent. His chest flattened my breasts. The hard outline of his erection bit into my belly. One of his hands slipped beneath my skirt. The tip of his finger drew the cotton panel of my panties aside and slipped through my slick folds.
“Jesus, kitten,” he murmured in my ear, so quietly I sensed his words more than I heard them. The intrusion of his roughened fingertip made me forget to be mute.
“Ah, Carter, yes.”
“You have to be quiet,” he whispered against my neck. The plush stiffness of his beard tickled my jaw.
“Then you’d better hurry up or all bets are off.” I palmed the length of his cock, straining against his jeans.
“You’re my kind of girl.” His smile brushed my neck. “Condom. Back pocket.”
I slid my hands down his spine to the wallet in his back pocket. By feel, I found the condom and ripped the foil packet. While he teased my clit, I drew the condom over the length of his cock. My body hummed with desire, taut as a guitar string. In the hallway, the bathroom door opened and closed. We held our collective breaths and exhaled in tandem when the footsteps faded away. The danger of getting caught heightened the excitement. I’d never done in anything
so risky or quite this dirty, and I loved it.
He stared into my eyes. With a hand on each of my hips, he shoved inside me with a muffled grunt. The delicious friction of his velvety skin against my silky wetness made me gasp. The suddenness of it was rough and almost too much. I clutched his shoulders while he pounded into me with short, hard thrusts. As my climax burned through my womb and down to my toes, I whimpered. He placed a hand over my mouth to silence my cries and followed after me with a jerk and a shudder.
Slowly, he lowered his hand from my mouth and replaced it with his lips. My head spun at the taste of his tongue, searching and dancing with mine. More footsteps tapped down the hallway. We pulled apart. He tied off the condom and shoved it into his pocket. I tugged my skirt down. He dropped a light kiss on my mouth. This tiny parting gift cracked the concrete wall around my emotions. I searched his eyes, looking for clues, desperate to know his thoughts. His eyes were dark and turbulent, filled with a mixture of anger and resignation, but the gold flecks were back.
Slowly, he smoothed my hair from my face and leaned forward. His breath scalded my ear in a whisper. “You go first. I’m going to slip out the back.”
He opened the door and peeked out. At his nod, I went straight into the restroom. With shaking hands, I splashed water on my face and tidied my hair. I stared at the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, a wild-eyed girl with flushed cheeks and a love bite on her neck.
On impulse, I pulled the blond wig from my purse and tugged it over my hair, needing to be someone else, wanting to hide from who I was and what I’d just done. Jo Hollander didn’t screw random guys in closets or on the hood of a car. She was quiet and responsible and boring. I ran through the events of the past fifteen minutes, but left the restroom more bewildered than when I’d entered. His delectable hotness had disintegrated my self-control. My thighs burned, and the space between my legs pulsed as I walked out of the diner. Inch by excruciating inch, Carter Eckhouse was burrowing beneath my skin.
Pretty Broken Bastard: A Standalone Novel Page 8
