“You like her.”
“I do not.”
“You do too. Look at you getting all alpha and growly because my boyfriend touched her nose. Meanwhile, I’m standing here, an exact replica—”
“Your ass is bigger,” I say dryly, my gaze drifting back down the bar. The douche leaves and Ellie starts loading the cooler with bottles of Coors Light.
“A near exact replica, one that isn’t off-limits, and you’ve barely glanced my way once you figured out I wasn’t her. I’d say that means you like her, not just the package she’s wrapped in.”
My mouth pops open and I quickly close it. There isn’t much to say in my defense, so I stare at Ellie like a fucking perv.
“There are two of them,” Jay hoots clamping a hand on my shoulder. His voice carries down the bar and Ellie looks our way. We lock eyes, and hers roll when she spots me.
She stomps over and grabs her sister by the hand and whispers something into her ear. Not Ellie giggles and shakes her head.
“Dibs on Thing Two,” Jay says leaning into my side.
“Thing Two?”
“Her sister.”
“No.” My jaw ticks.
“You can’t have them both.”
“I don’t want them both.”
“Then dibs on Thing Two,” he repeats.
I tear my gaze away from the girls to glare at Jalen. “It’s just weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“You fucking someone who looks like my…” I snap my mouth shut. Don’t go there, Max.
“Your what?” Jay asks, amused. The drunk dicks on my right yell at the screen and I focus my attention on the instant replay. Go Knicks. “Why didn’t you ask Ellie about Vann?”
“I said drop it.” My jaw clenches. I need a drink. I snap my fingers toward Piss Girl. She flips me off, then goes back to talking to her sister.
Jay laughs at the exchange, then clarity washes over his face and he smiles so wide, the fucking dimples in his cheeks pop out. “You fucked her, didn’t you?”
“That would be against company policy,” I grit. The forward for the Knicks misses a free throw and everyone at the bar groans in unison. “Piss Girl,” I yell. I really need a fucking drink.
“You fucked her and you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re a shitty liar, Max. You always scratch your left eyebrow. It’s your tell.”
I drop my hand, not even realizing I was doing it. “Ellie,” I seethe and thank God, she finally stomps over. “I need bourbon,” I grunt. “Preferably something that won’t leave me hungover and reeking like I live under a bridge.”
Her tiny hands ball into fists at her sides. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying and failing to get drunk. I guess I shouldn’t hold my breath on getting laid.”
That shuts her up. And I can’t help the smug smile I shoot her.
She narrows her eyes at me, but Jalen speaks before she gets the chance. “Max wanted to make sure you didn’t tell anyone about what happened between the two of you.”
Ellie’s eyes flash with anger. “You told him.”
“I knew it.” Jay hooks his arm around my neck. “I can’t believe you tried to lie to me.”
“What is happening? What are you guys doing here?” Ellie looks between us.
The asshole next to me grunts. “El-Bell, grab me a beer, would you?”
She nods and pops the top on a Budweiser, then hands it to him.
“What about my bourbon?”
“Fuck you and your bourbon.”
We glare at each other for a while, tension swirling between us. God, she’s gorgeous. Even more so when she’s being a brat. The urge to drag her to the back and show her who the fuck the boss is pulses through my body like a current.
“Two things.” Jay’s voice breaks the spell. We both turn to look at him. “Sorry. I’ll let you get back to the foreplay in just a few minutes, but we need to take care of some business first. We need your help with Vann. Max was too busy trying to get into your pants to ask, but we are way out of our depth with him and we could use someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re talking about when it comes to fashion because Max and I are hopeless.”
A smug smile paints her face. “I told you to let me come.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and it pushes her boobs higher. My dick takes notice.
“If I remember correctly, I did let you come—twice.”
Her face falls and I take it as a win. “Fine. I’ll help. What’s the second thing?”
“Is your sister single?” Jay asks.
“Who, Erin?” Ellie shakes her head. Her long curly hair flies around her shoulders like a cape. “Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“She has a sometimes boyfriend; sometimes they’re on, and sometimes off.” She tips her thumb to the other end where Erin stands with the handsy asshole from before. “They’re currently on.”
Another customer approaches. Ellie turns to make his drink and he checks out her ass. Now, I’m not a possessive asshole—strike that—I am the possessive asshole, but I recognize that Ellie works at a high-class Hooters, and guys eye-fucking her is just a hazard of the job. It isn’t until he pulls out a pen and writes his number down on a fifty-dollar bill that I lose my shit. “Keep it.” He grins, then saunters away. Dick. I snag the money and rip it to shreds. Ellie’s eyes widen.
“What are you doing?”
“Yeah, Max,” Jalen chuckles. “What are you doing?” He’s entirely too pleased with tonight’s turn of events. This is exactly why I didn’t want him to know about me and Ellie. We could be old and gray and he’d still give me shit about that time I fucked my assistant.
“He wants to fuck you,” I grit.
“So, what?” Ellie blinks.
“So, your next five fucks have my name on them.”
“Max!” Her eyes dart around the bar. Her toffee-colored cheeks flush. “I don’t think the people down the bar heard you.”
“But I did,” Jalen pipes up. “Also, can I have a beer?”
Ellie shakes her head and stomps away. She slips under the bar and I lose her in the crowd. I’m up and chasing after her in seconds. I force my way through a wall of bodies and spot the back of her head as she disappears behind a door marked Employees Only. I push through the door, and my hands circle her waist, forcing her backward into the metal lockers.
“Don’t fuck with me, Piss Girl.”
“I’m just doing my job and now thanks to you, not only am I out of a forty-dollar tip, but I also have to pay for that beer.” I pull five, one-hundred-dollar bills from my pocket. “What are you doing?”
“Tipping,” I say, tucking one of them into her bra.
Her chest heaves. She’s still pissed, but the anger slowly morphs into desire. I can see it in the way her eyelids drop a fraction of a centimeter. I can feel it in the way her skin warms beneath my palms and in the way she arches her body into mine. She’s turned on. Her senses heighten and her guard lowers. “I’m not a stripper.”
“I’m not asking you to take your clothes off,” I say, sliding more money into the other cup. I run the other bills down her flat stomach and tease the waistband of her short shorts. “If anything, I’m paying you to keep them on.” I lift the band, we both look down, pink cotton covers her mound. I slide the bills down her shorts cupping her sex, the money and her panties the only thing between us.
“I need to finish my shift.” Her voice is a whisper. One I’d like to bottle up and keep in my pocket. One I’d covet for a lifetime. A trophy to remind me of the time I corralled the moon and made her bend to my will.
“And I need to put my dick in your mouth.”
“MAX!” She pushes me back, but not away.
I struggle to keep my expression neutral as I say, “I came on your back, don’t act shy on me now.”
She looks at me like she wants to stab me, but something flashes in her eyes. That wi
ldness that captivated me on the elevator. It’s that same thing that had me chasing her back here. That spark of life and curiosity and goodness. “What did you write?” she asks. Her anger forgotten.
“My name.” I choke out the words. My voice harder than my cock.
Ellie sighs. Her forehead drops to my chest and she wiggles against my hand. “I think we need some rules.”
“Rule number one: your cunt is mine. Rule number two: your mouth is mine. Rule number three: your cute little asshole is mine.”
She arches a brow up at me. “How do you know it’s cute—my asshole? What if it’s hairy and gross?”
“Everything about you is cute. You’re like a Teletubby wearing a tutu. I usually find it annoying, but since we’re talking about places for me to stick my dick, I’ll forgive you.”
“And they say chivalry is dead.”
“That’s your first mistake, Piss Girl. I’m not a knight and you aren’t a princess. I’m the devil. You offered up your body to me on a silver platter. Five fucks, and I’m cashing the first one in tonight. Tell Thing Two to cover for you and meet me out front.” She starts to protest but I cut her off. “If I have to come back in here, I’ll fuck you over the bar, just to teach you a lesson,” I say, biting her bottom lip, then I stroll out, pleased that my trip to Brooklyn was productive in more ways than one.
“It only feels like falling until you start to fly, but you can’t do either unless you jump.” Those were Erin’s exact words when I told her about Max’s ultimatum. Who knew my baby sister (by three minutes, but still) was so philosophical? Despite her wild child reputation, deep down Erin is a hopeless romantic. She thinks Max and I are a good fit. I didn’t have the heart to tell her our “relationship” has an expiration date.
“Come on, Piss Girl,” Max says as he pulls me into the elevator of his fancy Uptown apartment building. “I don’t bite.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” I tell him shrinking into the corner. The last time I rode an elevator with him, I had to eat my weight in fried rice to recover. Let’s just say I’m not jumping up and down for a repeat. He can’t just demand I leave my place of employment for a dick appointment. You did leave your place of employment for a dick appointment, my subconscious chides. But that’s beside the fact.
“Yeah, but you like my bites.” As if to emphasize his point, Max sinks two pearly white teeth into the soft pink flesh of his bottom lip.
“I plead temporary insanity.” Sucking in a shaky breath, I hope like hell my voice doesn’t betray how off-balance I feel.
“You having second thoughts?” he asks, stalking toward my corner of the car. Heat radiates from his body, eviscerating the layer of ice I’d built around me on the drive from Brooklyn.
“I’m having thousandth thoughts,” I confess. “This isn’t smart.”
His fingers toy with the strap of my duffle bag. I move it between us as if Nike could save me from the devil. Max studies me. Lust and something I can’t quite pin down swim in his ocean eyes. “No, but it is fun.”
“Fun for you could end in homelessness for me.” It’s a moment of honesty that feels too intimate. I wish I could take the words back as soon as they fall from my lips.
He pulls the bag from my shoulder and it drops to the ground. My self-confidence is down there somewhere too. “I know you think I’m an asshole.”
“Think?” I arch my brow.
“I know I’m an asshole,” he corrects, wrapping his hands around my waist. He pulls me into his chest and whispers his next words just below my ear. Whiskey and Tom Ford flood my senses. It’s a heady combination. “I wouldn’t jeopardize your job so I can get my dick wet. If you don’t want to do this, then just say the word and I’ll have my driver take you back to Brooklyn.”
The elevator doors slide open. My body shakes with anticipation. God, I want him, and I know it’s stupid, but I do. Bending, I grab my bag and my confidence. Thinking back on Erin’s words, I inhale, deciding in that moment to jump.
Max grins but wisely keeps his mouth shut as we step off the elevator.
Marble and obscene wealth greet us.
His penthouse is massive. All I can think about is how much rent costs on a place like this. There’s art in the foyer. Real art, not framed prints from Marshalls, but actual paintings. The living room area alone is bigger than the shoebox I call home. Everything is spotless, which makes sense. I’m sure he has a cleaning person, but Max has neat freak written all over him. I’m convinced he is one traumatic experience away from becoming a full-blown psychopath.
I settle onto a bar stool. Max stands across from me. We stare at each other, neither of us sure what to do next. It’s odd seeing Preston Maxwell Anderson III out of his element, especially since he has home field advantage. I drag the edge of my thumbnail across my bottom lip and take a moment to appreciate the man before me. He’s wearing a gray Henley shirt, the kind that looks like he plucked it from a multipack but feels like money. His dark wash jeans hang off his toned legs. His hair is tousled like he just got out of bed, and his eyes smolder with a look that’s equal parts, holy shit I’m fucked, and holy shit, I’m about to get fucked.
“You wanted rules?” he says, his jaw stiff. I bet his dick is too. I lower my eyes to check. Yup, he totally has a boner.
Peeling my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I reply, “I did? I mean…I do.”
“Then stop looking at me like you want me to rip your panties off and bend you over the counter.”
I blink at him, doing my best to shake off my inner perv. He’s right. We need to establish the terms and conditions of our casual sex pact before we fall any deeper into the abyss. I pull my phone from my bra, ignoring the snort coming from the opposite side of the breakfast bar. “Okay, rule number one,” I begin tapping into the notes app. “You aren’t allowed at Woody’s anymore.”
“Trust me, slumming it at bars in Brooklyn isn’t high on my list of priorities—no offense.” I flip him off, then add the rule to the list. “Number two,” he says, “you aren’t allowed to flirt with customers.”
“Guys tip better when you flirt back,” I counter.
“Tough shit, Piss Girl.” He crosses his arms over his chest as if to say that is nonnegotiable, which is fine. He won’t be there to see me flirting anyway.
“Number three. Piss Girl dies.”
“Not a chance. I won’t call you that while we’re fucking, but outside of the bedroom, we have to pretend like we hate each other.”
“We do hate each other.” I narrow my eyes. Max narrows his right back. We stare at each other, lust and contempt volley for domination.
“Rule number four,” he grits, and I take him conceding as a small victory because something tells me Max doesn’t back down often, “non-penetrative sex doesn’t count.”
“It does too,” I shoot back.
“No, it doesn’t.” Max shakes his head. “And neither does having sex multiple times in one day.”
“This sounds confusing.”
“It isn’t. For example, I plan to fuck you at least twice before you go back to Brooklyn, and my dick will be in your mouth”—he pauses to check his watch—“in about twenty minutes. But for the purposes of our arrangement, it will only count as one fuck.”
I sigh but add it to the list. Judging by the way he fucked me in his office, if we counted each individual orgasm, our arrangement would be over before dawn. “We need a way to keep track. A calendar maybe?”
“I’m not scheduling sex like a limp dick loser, Piss Girl.” He goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of wine.
I wrinkle my nose. I know all girls are supposed to love wine, but I do not. It tastes moldy. And that very well may be because I haven’t had good wine, but I’d rather not throw up on my boss/fuck-buddy. “You don’t have any beer?”
“No, but I’ve got whiskey. The kind that will put some hair on your chest.”
“One hairy chest on the rocks, please.” I beam, then tap in rule number four.
“I’m not saying we have to schedule it, I’m just saying we should keep track. Just in case you fall in love with me and try to extend the deal.”
Max grunts as he makes our drinks, his straight up, mine over ice. “You don’t have to worry about that. Love is for fairy tales and teenage girls.”
“Touché. We’ll mark the days with the sex emojis.” I pull up a new calendar, titling it Dates with the Devil.
“The what?” His brows pinch in confusion, as he hands me my drink. “Please elaborate. What are the sex emojis?”
Cupping the glass, I take a tentative sip. Internally, my body is screaming, FIRE! ABORT! ABORT! But I can’t let him see me sweat, so I man up and take another drink before I explain the subtle nuances of emoji communication to my boss. “You know, the pokey finger, and the okay hand, or if you prefer the eggplant and peach.”
If looks could kill, the one Max shoots me would have left me bloodier than an extra on the set of an Al Pacino movie. “Are you about to suggest we film ourselves eating laundry detergent packs while jumping out of a moving car?”
“Okay, A, fuck you.” I take another drink. Hairy chest isn’t half bad, though I haven’t eaten since noon and I’m already starting to feel a little tipsy. “And B. We are engaging in activities that could get us both fired—yes, even you, Mr. Anderson. We need a code. Plausible deniability and such.”
“Fine. Is that it for the rules?”
“Just one more, then you can put your dick in my mouth.” I grin.
“Ellie,” Max groans and adjusts himself.
“What?” I flutter my eyelashes innocently and take another sip of my whiskey.
“Get on with the fucking rules.” Max swallows his whiskey without flinching and I take the opportunity to check out his Adam’s apple again. How is it, that even his throat is perfect?
“Pun intended?” I giggle and he takes the glass from my lips. He points a finger at me in warning, then helps himself to the rest of my hairy chest. “Okay, geesh. I just think we should add a clause that states we can both initiate sex, but that we both have to agree before we use one.”
“A fuck?” He raises his brows in question. I bite my lip and nod. “That goes without saying, why do we need it in black and white?”
Pretty Little Mess Page 8
