“The truth, Preston.” My words find their intended target as his grip tightens.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Max growls.
He presses me into the lockers. The cold metal digs into my skin, but I ignore it. “Talk to me.”
“Take your clothes off.”
“Max.”
“Do I need to tip more?” He holds the remaining bill in front of my face. “Tell me how much?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
He tosses the whole pile at my chest. The money floats to the floor in slow motion. “Take your fucking clothes off. Let me see those pretty little brown nipples.” His voice is flat, not in the sarcastic way it sometimes is when he’s correcting me at work, but defeated.
Something is off. His hair looks like he spent the last three hours tugging it. The little vein in his neck pulses and cords as he swallows. The bravado is there, but the man standing in front of me isn’t the P-Three I’ve come to know and loathe. This is hurt and anguish dressed up as normal and healthy.
What I should do is tell him to fuck off. I should end our arrangement and cut my losses before this spirals past the point of no return.
I should, but I don’t.
Curiosity and the tiny little piece of my heart that P-Three has stabbed his way into is excited he came to me. That he needs me, even if it’s just to degrade me. Even if it’s just to forget whatever it is that’s bothering him. He came to Brooklyn, for me, because I make him forget. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but what’s even more fucked up than the pile of money at my feet is how deliriously happy it makes me. The power in it. Max is the heir apparent to the Anderson Capital throne. He could quite literally be anywhere in the world but he’s here, in Brooklyn, terrorizing me. That has to mean something, right?
“I don’t want your money,” I say, toying with the hem of my shirt. “But I will strip for your truths.” A flash of pink darts from his mouth as he licks his bottom lip, then he settles into one of the metal folding chairs. His posture is relaxed, legs spread wide, one stretched out in front, the other bent. “Why are you here?”
“I want to fuck you.” Feral blues track my every movement. The closer I get, the darker his gaze becomes, the faster my heart races.
I pull my t-shirt over my head. My messy bun falls loose and I tug the black elastic from my hair, freeing my mane. “How was dinner?”
“Awful,” he responds, and I kick off one of my nonslip shoes.
“Would you be here if it went better?”
He picks something off his knee and flicks it into the air. “I don’t know…”
I shake my head, my hair flies around my shoulder. “That’s not how this works. You tell me the truth or I put my clothes back on.” I pull my shirt back on to show him just how serious I am.
“I wanted to see you…but I don’t know if I would have acted on that urge had dinner not gone to shit.”
I pull the shirt back off, a reward for his candor, and step forward. “Why was it so bad?”
“Because my dad showed up, and because my mom is getting worse, and it doesn’t matter how much money we have, before it’s all said and done, we are going to lose her.” His voice is still flat, and the urge to bring back the man who rapid-fire texted me eggplant emojis in the middle of the conference room claws at my throat.
I unhook my bra and erase the distance between us. My knee brushes against his thigh. The straps fall and the lace slides down, slowly baring my nipples to him. Max reaches out and palms one, his grip alternating between firm and gentle.
“What’s wrong with her?” I half ask, half moan. His other hand digs into the meat of my ass and he tugs my shorts and panties down together.
“She has early onset Alzheimer’s.” His fingers sink into my core from behind, filling me, while his tongue teases my other nipple. “Most days she’s fine, like you saw today, a little forgetful, but fine.”
“And other days?”
He bends his head back, his chin rests on my stomach as he looks up at me. “Other days, she disappears for hours, only to come home cold and scared with no recollection of where she’d been.” A shudder rips from his body and vibrates through me like a thunderclap. A storm is brewing inside him. Max, usually so cool and unaffected, has demons like the rest of us. Perfection is a façade. I know it in theory, but standing between perfection’s legs, watching as he crumbles is another thing entirely. “She’s too young for this disease, and yet, here we are, progressing through the stages, each one scarier than the last.”
Pressing a kiss to Max’s forehead, I kick off my other shoe relishing in the feel of his fingers as they drag from my core. Once the rest of my clothes are off, I drop to my knees. Words of comfort are meaningless to a man like Max. What I do offer is my body, because that’s what he came for. I unbutton his pants, tugging until he lifts up enough that they fall into a puddle around his ankles. His dick greets me and I suck him into my mouth like a shot, his tip hits the back of my throat and I swallow the hint of pre-cum as my chaser. Preston Maxwell Anderson needs me, a broke girl from Oakland who can barely make rent each month.
His fingers tangle into my curly hair, and he fists into it, thrusting his hips up, forcing himself deeper and deeper, so deep that I gag around him. The thrill of it makes my body buzz and thrum—it fucking sings for him. Reaching between my legs, I press two fingers inside my center, desperate to fill the void Max’s thicker ones created.
I’m embarrassingly wet and what’s worse, I don’t care. I don’t care that this rich prick from Manhattan has me breaking the rules even before the ink has truly dried on the page. I don’t care that we are in a room with no lock. I don’t care that his cock is stretching my throat to the limit. The only thing that matters in this moment is how he makes me feel.
Beautiful. Wanton. Alive. At some point, maybe after the string of disastrous internships, I switched to autopilot. Life became more about making rent than about living. That was until Max came, offering nothing but meaningless sex, yet unknowingly making me feel everything.
Max’s hips flex as he yanks my head back. Saliva trails from my mouth to his dick and I lick my lips, hungry for more. “That’s my pussy you’re fingering,” he informs me, his voice thick with need and unabashed desire. I look down, my hand coated in honey. Slowly, teasingly, I pull them from my core and drag them up my clit.
“Is this better, Mr. Anderson?” I moan as my slippery fingers rub hard circles around the little bundle of nerves. Max grabs my wrists, lifting me to my feet. His eyes are wild and the tone of his voice is guttural, unhinged in a different kind of way. In a way that has a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I trace his bottom lip with one of my slick fingers. “Or maybe this?”
He sucks on my fingers, licking every drop of me. “I’m going to fuck you,” he says, backing me into the lockers. “And I’m taking you home and I’m going to fuck you again.” He presses his lips to mine. “And again.” He kisses me. “And again.” His teeth sink into my bottom lip.
“Max—” I try to protest. I really try, but before I can even finish the sentence, he hoists me up and on instinct, I wrap my legs around his waist, silently agreeing to follow him to Manhattan—or over a cliff, if that’s what he wants.
He settles for the chair, lifting me up enough to align our parts, his rigid and veiny, mine wet and weeping. My desire drips down my thighs.
“Sit on it, Piss Girl.”
I attack his mouth with my tongue, with my teeth. “Fuck you, Mr. Anderson,” I growl between each angry kiss. His grip on my hip tightens, his other hand circling the base of his shaft. He thrusts up at the same time he pulls me down, and then I’m stuffed full of him.
“Fuck,” we both hiss in unison.
I am fuller than I have ever been. Swirling my hips, I chase the high that only Max can give. He is stronger than any drug, and more dangerous too. I wrap my arms around his neck, my forehead meeting as we grind, my sweaty naked body writhes on top of hi
s, milking him, absorbing the remains of whatever sadness plagues him.
Before long, he comes deep inside me. We’re quiet for a few moments, then as the high wears off, I move to stand. “Don’t.” He digs into my thighs, holding me in place. “I like the way you feel with my cum inside you,” he whispers.
It’s another truth, one I didn’t have to beg for. A tiny morsel that deserves truth in return. “I like it too.”
His ocean eyes find my ash and I drown in them. This isn’t real. This is just sex. I have to remember that. Heart, we have to remember that.
Sunlight pours through the window highlighting Max’s cheekbones. My finger runs down the bridge of his nose, dipping into his cupid’s bow, then brushes gently across his lips. My body tingles at the perfect stillness of it all. It’s peaceful here, a million stories above the hustle and bustle of the city below. An oasis in the sky. I’d call it heaven, but I’m pretty sure Max has horns—not wings.
Rosie barks from the other side of the door, rousing Max from his sleep. He smiles, then groans, tugging me closer. “You need to quit that job. I feel like we wasted a night because you worked for half of it.” After we had sex on the chair (which I disinfected because I’m not so morally bankrupt as to think my peers want to sit in my sex juice), Max waited, not so patiently by the bar for me to finish the last of my side work. It was slow enough for Erin and Luca to handle closing alone, so I didn’t feel too bad about abandoning them again.
I giggle. “We can make a rule that we only evoke the sex emoji on nights that I’m off?” I’m not in a rush to leave the comfort of his king-size bed either, but quitting my job isn’t an option.
“Or you can quit that stupid fucking job that I loathe.” His voice gets so low it’s nearly a growl. Rosie barks again, as if to say, you assholes are lucky I don’t have thumbs! I know you hear me out here.
“I can’t decide if you’re being adorable or delusional, but those of us who live in the real world can’t just quit their job.” I shift so that his morning wood is wedged firmly between my legs.
“How much do you make serving rail vodka to drunk assholes?” His hand slides down my naked torso, and his fingers rub my clit absently. It’s still swollen from last night, and this morning, when he woke me up at four with his mouth. I’d be willing to bet angry purple bruises cover the inside of my thighs.
Max pisses me off like no other. Not even Erin when she steals my clothes, then gets grease stains on them from spending the day in the kitchen, can push my buttons like P-Three. Unfortunately, no one can get me off like he can either. “None ya,” I moan.
“I’m being serious.” His fingers still and he lifts up on an elbow and shoves the same fingers he used to play with my clit into my mouth. “What if I increase your salary by say…20k? That should replace whatever bullshit tips you make there, right?”
I roll my eyes and bite him. His fingers slip past my lips, and he returns them to their home between my legs. “Twenty thousand dollars? Delusional. You’re definitely delusional.”
“You’re willing to flirt with assholes for a few extra bucks but you won’t accept a raise from me?”
“That’s different, I’m not sleeping with those guys. This”—I emphasize this by flexing my vaginal muscles—“feels different and wrong and gross.”
“Gross.” He arches a brow, his fingers pumping faster, accentuating the squishing noises my wetness makes with each thrust. “Your body doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Not that, jackass. You discussing my salary while you’re knuckles deep is grossly unprofessional.”
“You’re being dramatic.” He grins and presses a kiss to my lips. His tongue traces the shell of the bottom one and I really want to deny him this, but that familiar pull in my belly blooms and my mind goes hazy. Stop this, Ellie, or you’ll leave this apartment with a twenty-thousand-dollar raise, but morally bankrupt.
Pushing his hand away, I move to stand. My legs are a little wobbly, but it’s better this way. I can’t think when he’s near me, let alone when he’s inside of me. “You can’t give me a twenty-thousand-dollar raise just so you can fuck me on a more convenient schedule. I’ve hardly been there a month and you didn’t speak to me for most of that time. What will people say?”
“A. I don’t give a fuck what people say and B. you’re helping Jalen and me with Vann. If your little fashion bootcamp works, you’ll have earned it.” His voice is bored, like he can’t understand why I won’t take his money.
Rosie barks again, and we both turn to look at the door. “Look, you need to take her out, and I need to shower.” I make my way to the en suite bathroom and linger by the door. “We can revisit this conversation, at work, with an HR person present, but until then I’m keeping my job. I can’t afford to quit.”
Max throws his legs over the edge of the bed and huffs in frustration. “You’re broke because you have too much dignity, not because there’s a lack of wealthy men willing to finance your lifestyle.”
“What if I wanted more than nice things?” Another truth, but the look on Max’s face tells me that game is over. This relationship consists of a shared calendar and three more nights of sex. “I’m going to grab a shower,” I say, doing what any other self-respecting single girl would do in my shoes—run.
“Ellie.” He takes a step toward me, but I hold up my hand.
“No, really. My boss is kind of a dick and I need to grab his coffee before he gets to work.” I slip the rest of the way inside the bathroom and push the door shut behind me. My head thuds against the wood.
Stupid Ellie.
Stupid, stupid heart.
Lynn slides into the elevator just as the doors close. I give her a clipped nod and stare down at my phone. My shoulders are still tense from my morning with Ellie. She left before I got back from taking Rosie for her walk, and though she replied to my text when I asked her where she went, there were no exclamation points or emojis, which I can only take to mean she’s pissed.
It’s ludicrous. She needs money, I offered her a raise. Problem solved, right? No, somehow I was very fucking wrong and now I’m the bad guy. This is why I should stick to dating my usual type, women who only care about my ability to get them into exclusive clubs and my dick staying hard.
Speaking of, Lynn clears her throat. “Mr. Anderson,” she purrs. I lift my eyes from the numbers Jalen sent me, and pin her with a, can’t you see I’m busy look. Her smirk falters a bit, but she steps forward. A French tipped nail drags its way down my chest. “It’s been a while since we’ve been alone.”
Translation: I miss sitting on your dick.
“I know,” I tell her taking a step back.
Translation: Someone else is sitting on it now.
The mental image of Ellie riding me on a folding chair in the locker room at Woody’s has me adjusting my slacks. It also has Lynn thinking my semi is for her. She backs against the elevator panel and presses the emergency stop button.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she drops to her knees and shuffles forward, licking her bright red lips. “Breaking rule number fourteen, clause B in the employee handbook.” Before I have a chance to register what the actual fuck is happening, she has my belt tugged open and the sound of my zipper being lowered fills the silence. Red stains the bottom of my crisp white shirt as she tries to slip my boxers down.
I fist a handful of her blonde hair and tug her head back. “This doesn’t belong to you,” I bark, palming my cock with my free hand.
Her blue eyes turn to ice and she sneers up at me. “Whose is it then? Because if I’m not servicing you, I wonder if a certain curly-haired homegirl from around the way is?”
“I suggest you watch how you speak about my assistant.” I glare at her with a look that says eat shit and die. “And if you touch me again, you’ll be looking for another job.” I release my grip, restart the car and fix my clothes. Lynn’s still on her knees pouting as the doors slide open. Jalen, El
lie, and Winston are by the reception desk, laughing at something on Ellie’s phone. In unison, they turn to watch as Lynn stands, and swipes at her smeared lipstick with her thumb.
Hurt flashes in Ellie’s eyes and I wish I could pull her aside and tell her nothing happened, but Winston’s knowing smirk distracts me—enrages me—same difference. “The fuck are you looking at, limp dick?” I growl. Jalen rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have the same contentious relationship with Winston that I have.
“Real professional, Max.”
“What are you gonna do, tell your daddy?”
The little weasel smirks, shifting his gaze to Ellie. She looks like she can’t decide if she wants to run crying and screaming into the bathroom or flay me like a trout. A few beats pass and she settles somewhere between the two. “I got your coffee, Mr. Anderson.” Her tone is clipped as she lifts the cup up for me to see. “Winston, if you’re free, I’ve been dying to try the deli on the corner. Wanna go for lunch?”
“It’s a date.” He grins like a pig in shit, and they both head to their desks.
I look to Jay for backup and the motherfucker shakes his head at me as if I’m in the wrong. He saunters away too, leaving me alone in reception with Lynn, who, despite me rejecting and threatening to fire her, looks pleased with this latest turn of events.
I storm down the hall just in time to see Ellie sit and glare at her computer. My coffee sits on the corner of her desk. I snag it and yell, “Get your ass in my office. NOW!” I stomp away before she has the chance to protest. I pace circles in front of my desk as the minutes tick by, pausing just long enough to sip the steaming hot coffee, hoping like hell the dark roasted crack beans work their magic. “Fuck it,” I growl to no one, and march back out to her desk. “I said—”
She holds up a finger, the middle one, then goes back to typing whatever it is that she’s typing. My phone pings. A new email from one, Ellie Chase.
Pretty Little Mess Page 11
