To: Max Anderson, Anderson Capital
From: Ellie Chase, Executive Assistant Max Anderson.
Subject: I hope your dick falls off >:(
Dear Mr. Anderson,
Next time you let your whore blow you in the elevator, make sure her lipstick doesn’t stain your $700 shirt.
Also, I quit. Not my job, but the other thing.
Sincerely,
I spit in your coffee.
My eyes snap from my screen to Ellie and I grit, “Nothing happened, you aren’t quitting, and if you want to try the new deli, I’ll be the one taking you. Now, if your little bitch fit is over, I have a meeting upstairs this morning and I need to prepare. When I come back down, we can talk about this like fucking adults.” I lift the coffee to my lips and add, “Is there really spit in this?”
Ellie narrows her eyes at me. “You’ll never know.”
I shrug and take a sip anyway.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Considering I’ve stuck my tongue, dick, and fingers in every hole in your body, I doubt a little of your saliva will kill me.”
“Not every hole,” she mumbles defiantly.
“Are you asking me to fuck you in the ear? Because I don’t think it will fit, but I’d be willing to try.”
“I hate you.”
I take three long strides toward her desk, kicking her chair around to face me. Kneeing her legs apart, I bend so that we are nose to nose. “I get that you’re pissed, but you’re still mine, so deal with it or don’t, but if you keep up with this attitude, I can promise you, my cum will be the only thing you eat for lunch.”
Ellie shoots me a molasses smile, the kind that starts at the corners of her mouth and is gradual in its rise. Too sweet to be genuine, yet too sticky to escape. I stare down at her perfectly straight teeth, and the pillow soft lips surrounding them and wait. She doesn’t disappoint.
“In that case, have fun drinking my spit for breakfast.” Planting her feet she pushes back, the chair slips from my grasp and she walks it into place behind her desk.
I shake my head, take my coffee, and retreat to my office. Ellie may have won this battle, but she won’t win the war. I know it. She knows it. Hell, even my dick knows it. Too bad I only have three nights left to fuck her into submission.
Two hours later, I stroll past a still scowling Ellie and make my way to the elevator. I’ve been summoned by Graham for an update on the “Vann Situation.” The fashion industry wouldn’t even be on his radar if it weren’t for me and Jalen, and yet somehow, we are to blame for the delay.
My jaw ticks as the doors slide open and I see bitch Karen and Graham chatting leisurely outside of my dad’s old office. “Max.” Graham extends his hand. I glare at it then drag my gaze to Karen.
“What’s she doing here?”
Graham drops his hand. “Same thing you’re doing here. Shall we?” He sweeps his arm toward his door. Karen casts a sidelong glance at the dark, empty office—the same office I caught her choking on my father’s dick in—then follows behind Graham.
Inside, we sit around Graham’s sleek desk, a sharp contrast to the giant oak edifice next door. I keep my posture relaxed, although I feel anything but. “You rang,” I say in a monotone voice.
“Where are you with Attar?” Graham doesn’t mince words. He’s as sharp and as calculating as my father, but knows how to keep it in his pants. He’d make a great CEO for any other company, but Anderson Capital is mine.
“The same place I was Monday when you asked,” I retort, slipping my phone from my pocket. I pretend to check a few emails, then check the weather app, before firing off a text to Ellie.
Are you still pissed?
“What’s taking so long?” Karen chirps. Her lips are painted bloodred to match her talons.
“Why is she here?” I ask, ignoring her question—her presence—completely. My phone pings.
Piss Girl: Are you still breathing?
I’ll take that as a yes.
Graham clears his throat. He narrows in on the phone in my hand but swallows back his condemnation. “Because I think she can add some important insight.”
“Fuck that,” I snarl. “No way. This is my baby.”
“We are a team here, Maxwell, or did you forget?” Graham says in that annoyingly condescending tone he used to take with us as children. He leans back into his chair, steepling two fingers in front of his face.
“Don’t fucking Maxwell me. I scouted Attar. I did all the leg-work. I will sign him, so keep your bitch on her leash.” Karen huffs, but again, I ignore her. “This hasn’t been a team since my grandfather died. I will bring in Attar. You”—I point to the man I once looked up to—“stay the fuck out of my way.”
My blood boils all the way back downstairs. My intention is to drag Ellie into my executive bathroom by her hair and take my frustration out on her tight little body, but much to my annoyance, she’s not there.
Where are you? I text, kicking my office door shut.
Much to my annoyance, I find Jalen sitting on the corner of my desk. “What do you want? I thought you were going to Chelsea to meet with a client?”
“He canceled, plus, I thought you might like to know Thing One went home sick. But I’m sure catching her boyfriend in a compromising position with his old thang would make anyone sick.”
“I’m not her boyfriend,” I say, plopping down into my chair. My lips pucker into a pout and as hard as I fucking try to turn it into a scowl, I can’t. I’m pretty sure I look like one of those Instagram models—and not a good one.
“We’re still doing that?”
“Yup.” I bite down on my bottom lip to keep the fucker in line.
“Cool. Well, it’s Friday. You obviously don’t have plans. What do you want to do tonight?” My jaw ticks, but I say nothing in response. “You’re going to Brooklyn, aren’t you?” I grind my teeth and Jalen cackles. “Well, let’s go to fucking Brooklyn.”
The buzz of my sewing machine gives me a high like no other. Better than sex. Well…better than sex before Max. Ugh. Fucking Max. The silky brown satin slips from my fingers, bunching around the needle. That man ruins everything—panties, hearts, sixteen-dollar-a-yard fabric—everything.
I flip the switch on the machine and the buzzing dies a slow death. My lone Alexander Wang boot is perched high above my sewing table like a trophy—a reminder that even in the face of extreme adversity (an asshole boss), I can persevere (make it through a workday without crying or day drinking). Also, those boots were expensive as fuck and there was no way I was getting rid of it.
Sighing, I push back from the table and glance around the empty apartment. Erin’s working and probably crashing at Luca’s after, which means I’m left alone to overthink the events of the day. I’d planned to use the time to get back to what I really love most, creating. I’m meeting Vann Attar in a month, and I don’t have any fresh ideas. In fact, I haven’t had any inspiration since I started at Anderson Capital. Max and his lecherous penis sucked all the fun and beauty right out of my goddamn soul.
Okay, I may be a little dramatic, but why Lynn? Of all the people in the world, he picks her? She isn’t even that pretty. I mean if you like leggy blondes with big boobs and straight teeth. So what, I have a little gap? It gives my mouth some character.
Do you hear yourself, right now? My inner-self snarks. Leave that woman and her looks out of it. She didn’t make you any promises.
“Max hasn’t either,” I grumble and suddenly feel like an asshole. He promised to fuck me five times—that’s it. Max has given me everything he promised he would. I’m the fool who didn’t take him at his words. Instead of moping I need to be proactive. I can’t work at Anderson Capital forever. Woody’s either for that matter. I didn’t come to New York to serve drinks and be groped in a dirty bar or to transcribe notes and be groped in an office on Wall Street.
I want to do the groping, damn it! Maybe not actual groping, but I want to be the one in control. I want to
create beauty out of piles of rags and make women feel like mermaids. Make them feel like they can swim alongside the sharks without fear or insecurity. Strong, brave, beautiful, with a killer seashell bra.
Glancing back to sketch, I blow out a breath and tear the unoriginal satin gown from my book, pick up the kohl pencil and let my hand and my heart take over. Wild black curls curtain my sketch pad and magic happens. It isn’t until a loud knock comes from the front door that the spell is broken. My stomach growls, and the first smile I’ve smiled all day finds my lips. Chinese takeout and a beautiful beaded gown that belongs on somebody’s red carpet.
The delivery person knocks again, and I hop to my feet, snagging the wad of fives and ones from the waistband of my shorts and jog to the door. A greasy brown bag of deliciousness awaits me. Hand to metal, I yank the door open, fully prepared to give Ricky shit for taking so long with my food, but instead of seeing the Super Panda delivery driver I’m greeted by an asshole in a Burberry sweater. I snatch the food, shove the money in his chest, and attempt to slam the door in Max’s face. He sidesteps me and slips past the door just before it latches shut. The fucker is agile, I’ll give him that. “Out,” I grit.
“Ellie,” he growls, setting his duffle bag down. Rosie hops out. My mouth drops open. I’m not deathly afraid of his dog anymore, but I’m not sure how I feel about having her—or him for that matter—in my apartment.
Max uses my shock to advance. He stalks over to me; his body is long and lean and curves around mine. His cologne, wood and smoke and vanilla, fills the air, making me drunk on his presence. It infiltrates my safespace in a way that I’m not ready for. A way that I spent most of the day convincing myself I wasn’t interested in. Strong hands press into my lower back, the bag of simple carbs between us the only thing protecting me from the feel of him. The hardness of his chest, the bulge in his slacks, the tickle of his day-old stubble.
Get a grip, Ellie.
Inhaling, I take two steps back and grunt a “get out,” before stomping into the kitchen. I don’t even care that the hurt shines through my voice like sunbeams breaking through clouds to dance on water. I don’t care because this morning with Lynn fucking hurt. Yes, it’s my fault for projecting intentions onto Max he never committed to, but that doesn’t mean he can just show up to my apartment unannounced. This man has offered me nothing but a few orgasms and a sex contract. And twenty thousand dollars a year, the little, bitchy voice inside my head reminds me.
Despite my words, I slam two plates down on the counter and begin dumping fried rice on both. Max follows me into the tiny kitchen and leans against the counter, watching me with a weary expression. “You left.”
“You let another woman put her mouth on your dick.” I counter. Pulling out the beef and broccoli, I divvy it up as well.
“You don’t believe that,” he says. “If you did, I’m pretty sure that plastic fork would be sticking out of my carotid artery.”
I look down at the fork and think about stabbing him with it. “You’d probably sue me.”
“Probably.” He chuckles. “Or fuck you.”
“You won’t be doing that again.” I grunt, then drop the spring roll on my plate. The other one belongs to Erin and I refuse to share mine.
Max plants a palm on either side of my waist. His mouth finds my ear and he says, “Nothing happened, she dropped to her knees and I told her to get up. I don’t want her. I want you. Why else would I be in this shithole you call an apartment.”
“It is not a shithole.”
“It is,” he says nipping at my earlobe. “But I’m here anyway because this”—his hand dips lower and he cups my sex—“this is all I can seem to think about.”
“It’s messy.” I shake my head. Curls fly in every direction. This whole contractual sex thing. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could be the cool girl who has casual sex and walks away unscathed. But Max will destroy me and I’m going to let him. I’m an idiot.
“It is,” he agrees, stroking me over the soft cotton fabric of my shorts. We stand in my kitchen while he plays with my pussy. He pulls the loose sleep shorts back and forth, applying just enough pressure to make me forget how I felt seeing Lynn’s lipstick staining his shirt. Did I believe him? Yes. Max is a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. Mostly because he’s terrible at it. He scratches his eyebrow every time he says something untrue. “Are you still mad?” he asks, his fingers dig inside my shorts, and he lifts them, along with my skimpy thong up, wedging the material between my lower lips.
“Yes,” I grumble and pick up a piece of broccoli with my hands.
“Can I have a taste?”
“The other plate is yours.” I feel the burn on the apples of my cheeks with the admission.
“I know,” he whispers, “but I’m not talking about food.
“Oh.” My mouth drops open and Max spins me around and continues to rub my clit through the fabric. It isn’t enough. I need to feel him. Deep down, I know it’s my insecurity that’s driving my desire. The thrill of him fucking me, after rejecting Lynn. I know it’s wrong and a little toxic, but so is this relationship. I toss the broccoli on the plate and move to take off my shorts.
“Leave them on.” Max’s jaw is tight as he says the words. His throat bobs up and down, and his body is tense. He’s restraining himself, but why?
“Why?” I ask confused.
“I don’t want to slip up and slip in,” he tells me, unbuttoning his jeans. “Just a taste.” His cock springs free in all its thick, veiny glory. “We’ve only got three fucks left, and as appealing as the idea of pounding you into next week for leaving me today sounds. I don’t want to waste it.”
“I do.” I nod grinding myself against his shaft. “Let’s waste it. Please. Let’s waste it.”
“No. I’m going to get you off just like this.” I look down as he tugs my panties off just enough to rub the head of his dick against my opening. My wetness mixes with his pre-cum and he slides back and forth over me with ease. Each time the tip hits my clit, I shudder.
His lips find mine and he devours my moans. His tongue follows the same pattern of his cock below. Slow and gentle, then fast and hard. He pumps back and forth and back and forth and it’s driving me crazy. My body hangs on the edge and I’m desperate for more. Desperate to be filled by him. I lift on my toes at the exact time he moves lower and he breaches me. It’s slight, almost like it’s not even there, but I can feel it, that tiny connection sears me.
“Fuck,” he hisses. I move again and he grabs my hips. “Stop moving.”
“I need this, after today. I need to feel you. Put it in. Please. Just put it in.”
“No, Ellie.”
“We can save the next one.”
“Baby.” His eyes snap shut and his fingers dig into my hips. His voice sounds like he’s physically pained. I did that to him. I do that to him. Maybe I’m not alone in this. Maybe he wants me the way I want him.
“You called me baby.” I grin against his mouth as I push myself lower onto his shaft. It’s still just the tip, but it’s officially inside of me so there’s no use having the should we/shouldn’t we debate.
“I’m pretty sure I called you Piss Girl,” he grunts and thrusts up at the same time.
“You said baby. Who’s the Teletubby now?” I squeeze, and Max’s eyelashes fan over the tops of his cheeks. “Say it again.”
“Piss Girl.”
“I’ll share my eggroll with you.”
His body shakes as he laughs, then he lifts me up. “Where’s your room?”
I look to the blankets covering the couch, tipping my chin toward the mess. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“It’s Erin’s turn to have the bed, we switch.”
He grumbles something under his breath, that sounds a lot like, if you took the raise you could afford an apartment with two bedrooms, but I ignore it.
He drops me on the couch, pulling his clothes off. I undress as quickly as possible,
then he crawls up my body. We fuck like the moon would the ocean if ever given the chance. Wild, desperate, greedy, because in the back of our minds we both know once the sun rises, we go back to our opposite ends of the world and wonder how to make this impossible relationship last longer than a few stolen moments.
Max’s fingers rub lazy circles over my hip. Our legs are intertwined like a pretzel. It’s the only way we could both fit on the couch. I nuzzle into his neck. It’s stupid, but I allow myself to imagine a future where I have this, this feeling of utter serenity, every night. His chest rises up and down in a rhythmic pace, if it weren’t for his fingers writing on my skin, I’d think he was asleep.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, pressing a kiss into the little dip of his collarbone.
“You don’t want to know.” His chest vibrates with every word.
Insecurity eats at me. “You’re leaving?” My voice is small, but I look up at him anyway, hoping like hell I’d done a good job at masking the hurt that time.
He shakes his head, grinning down at me. “I’m thinking about your eggroll.”
I beam, then am up and running to the kitchen in an instant. “Not a chance, asshole.”
Max catches me around the waist just as my foot crosses the threshold and he pulls me back into his semi-hard erection. The feel of his bare skin against my skin makes me dizzy with delight, but my stomach chooses that moment to growl a loud and angry roar.
He laughs again. “Come on, baby.” His tone is sarcastic, but I melt a little anyway. “Let’s get you fed.”
I nod, and before long, we are both devouring room temperature Chinese takeout in my little kitchen wearing nothing but our birthday suits. “Can I ask you a question?” I say between bites.
“You just did.” He deadpans, then reaches over and grabs my eggroll to take a bite.
Rolling my eyes, I suppress the desire to smack it from his lips and say, “Can I ask you another question?” He smirks in response. “Two more questions.”
Pretty Little Mess Page 12
