by Cynthia Sax
“Yep.” I glance at Cyndi’s closed door. “She’s in her room.”
Angel doesn’t move in that direction. She looks around the room, disdain sharpening her already angular face. There’s a long pause. I don’t bother to make conversation. Angel doesn’t expect the help to speak.
“Well?” She huffs. “Are you going to get her or what?”
I want to tell her to get Cyndi herself. She’s been to the condo a thousand times. But the last time I said that, Angel complained bitterly to Cyndi for weeks, hinting that she should get rid of my ungrateful ass.
“Right away, ma’am.” I layer the sarcasm on as thick as I can, walking with mincing steps backward to Cyndi’s door. I rap my knuckles against the door, and the TV’s volume lowers. “Cyndi, Angel is here.”
“I’ll be a minute,” she calls back.
I tiptoe back to Angel. “She’ll be a minute, ma’am. Would you like to take a seat?” Outside. In the hallway.
“I’ll stand.” Angel spreads her fingers. “She feels sorry for you, you know.” She examines her flawless French manicure. “That’s why she puts up with your insolence. You’re her current charity project, but someday soon, she’ll tire of you. Cyn never stays with any project for very long.”
Normally I’d ignore Angel’s bitchy comments, but she’s the second person today to hint my friendship with Cyndi is coming to an end. “We’ve been friends for almost five years.” Surely, this means something.
“Four of those were college years.” Angel sniffs. “Slumming is expected in college, but you’re in the real world now. In the real world, there are those who serve and those who are served. You should take my advice and stick to your own kind.”
I straighten, trying to appear taller, more significant. “I don’t judge people based on their bank accounts,” I lie, having done exactly that with Nicolas . . . and with Hawke.
“Then you’re the only person on the planet who doesn’t care about wealth.” Angel’s laughter is brittle, holding no joy.
Cyndi’s door opens. She slinks out of her room, wearing a silver metallic Hervé Léger bandage minidress, paired with dainty sandals. She usually seeks my advice on fashion purchases, sending me photos of prospective outfits. This dress was bought without my insights. Glitter dusts her cheeks and lips.
“I’m ready.” She doesn’t meet my gaze, doesn’t ask me to join them.
My heart twists. I’m losing my friend. “Have fun tonight.” My voice is small.
She says nothing, slipping out of the condo. Angel smirks over her shoulder as she follows Cyndi, her top reflecting the light, creating an otherworldly effect around them. They’re sparkly, beautiful, rich.
Kind sticks to kind.
The door closes and I’m alone.
I glance toward the windows. Perhaps I’m not completely alone. Did Hawke see Cyndi’s rejection, my humiliation? I drift toward the glass, lean my forehead against the cool surface, and grip the metal bars holding the panes in place, unconsciously seeking to be closer to him, hungry for company, even the wrong sort of company.
Is this how my mom felt? Had she been so lonely that being with any man, even the leaving kind, was better than the alternative?
Refusing to make the same choices, I push away from the window, away from the temptation of the telescope, of Hawke. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Nicolas, convince him to put us on the guest list for R, and Friday, I’ll go clubbing with Cyndi. We’ll make up, celebrate my full-time job, dance until our feet are sore.
Everything will be normal again.
Chapter Five
I SPEND THE rest of the evening drafting my list of work initiatives. My goal was to pitch ten hire-me-or-feel-like-a-fool ideas to Mr. Peterson. With the help of the Internet, I outline fifteen.
This full-time job is mine. I grin. At least one of these ideas will please my boss. Hell, he might even upgrade the position to reflect my awesomeness. I’ll spend some of that windfall on Cyndi.
She hasn’t texted me. Not once. She usually gives me the play-by-play at the clubs, sharing quirky fashion styles, bad pickup lines, sending me stealth video clips of crazy dancers, making me laugh until my stomach hurts.
Tonight, there’s silence and I miss her. I miss her so damn much.
I fiddle with my phone, willing it to ring. Nicolas’s number is listed on my incoming call list. As a joke, I draft a text to him, linking to an article I found in a woman’s magazine. The title is “How to Be a Better Friend.”
I shouldn’t send it. I know I shouldn’t. My finger has a brain of its own, however, and presses the send key.
Two minutes later, I receive a link from him. I click on it. The article lists the top five ways to deal with an asshole. I smile and set the phone on the couch. My best friend might not be thinking of me, but my billionaire is.
I watch TV, losing myself in the runway shows, admiring the fashions I adore yet can’t afford. Some of the styles are as classic and timeless as my Salvatore Ferragamo purse. They can be worn and loved for years.
At eleven fifteen, an electronic twinkle fills the quiet, and my heart leaps. It’s Cyndi. Finally. I grab my phone and stare down at the small screen.
Friendly: Leave your curtains open. Good girls earn rewards.
The text isn’t from my best friend. Intrigue offsets my disappointment. The text was sent from a stranger, a mysterious Friendly. Is it a wrong number?
I chew on the inside of my cheek. The texter called me a good girl, as though he or she knows me, and I do close my bedroom curtains at night. Is this person watching me? I walk to the window and stare out at the night. Hawke watched me this morning.
He didn’t conceal this fact though. He openly admits to his perversion. This texter hides under an alias. I click on the username. The number is unlisted. He or she is playing a game with me.
Nicolas likes to play games. I press my lips together. And he does know my phone number. In order to see my window, the sender has to have access to the buildings or park. Security guards would bounce a stranger from these restricted spaces.
They wouldn’t question Nicolas, and he did claim he wanted to be my friend.
But he’s also a billionaire. What would he gain from seeing me in my camisole and boy shorts? He has supermodels in priceless lingerie throwing themselves at him.
I consider texting the person back. My gut says not to. If the message is a clever marketing promotion or some other type of spam, my reply will encourage them. I get enough of that stuff as it is.
It’s best to ignore Friendly, whoever he is. I scroll through my messages, ensuring I haven’t missed one from Cyndi. I haven’t. She’s likely having a great time with Angel, a girl she has much more in common with.
I’m being replaced, discarded. Cooking and cleaning and giving Cyndi my complete loyalty aren’t enough, not anymore. I don’t have anything else to offer her. Not yet.
I shuffle to my bedroom and close the door, feeling more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life. The room is neat and tidy, all of my personal belongings tucked away in drawers and hidden in the closet.
The space doesn’t truly belong to me. The white wooden furniture, bright yellow walls, and massive painting of a blue-and-pink soup can were chosen by the condo’s interior designer. I’m a temporary resident here, as I’ve been everywhere else, and I try to take up as little room as possible, prepared to leave with the next eviction notice.
The white curtains remain open, the night black and starless. I toy with the thick fabric. I always close them. Would it be the end of the world if I left them open tonight, if I followed the texter’s instructions? Nicolas could be watching me. Or Hawke.
Or a creepy stranger. My shoulders shudder, a shiver running down my spine, and I yank the curtains closed. It’s best to play it safe. That’s how I’ve always lived my life.
And how’s that working for you? a voice inside me asks.
I pause for a moment to evaluate my current situation. It’s working pret
ty damn well, I decide. Sure, I’m having issues with my best friend, but I have a best friend and a job and a college degree. In contrast, my mom never graduated from college, having conceived me during summer break, and her entire apartment can fit in my bedroom.
I strip off my clothes and fold them before placing them neatly in the laundry basket. It’s best to continue what I’m doing, making cautious decisions and not taking any risks. I’ll go to the club with Cyndi on Friday, dance until my feet hurt, but I won’t sleep with anyone.
Not even if this potential anyone is as hot as Hawke.
I pull my faded boy shorts over my hips, tug my much-loved camisole over my head, and release my hair from the clip. It cascades down my back, the brown tendrils waist length and iron straight.
I should be thinking about my sophisticated billionaire, not some tattooed military man. Nicolas might not be as rugged as Hawke, but at least I know his real name. He isn’t afraid of commitment and, if I marry him, I’ll have enough wealth to close the widening gap between Cyndi and I.
Leaving the light on in the bathroom to combat my silly fear of the dark, I snuggle under the covers, stare up at the ceiling, and picture my future with Nicolas. In this fantasy, he’s a devoted companion. He silently holds my bags, his grim lips curled into an indulgent smile, as I shop, Cyndi by my side. My best girl and I will joke and laugh until coffee squirts out of our noses, the way we laughed in college.
My mom won’t have any money worries. She’ll spend weekends with me rather than at the diner. She’ll never have to move again. Her place will be safe and secure and rodent-free. I’ll have the fashions I love, and I’ll belong. I’ll have a permanent home, a forever love. The blackness closes around me. I close my eyes and dream.
I’M SEATED IN the limousine with Nicolas. It isn’t the same limousine we rode in earlier today. The windows aren’t tinted, the glass clear. People peer into the vehicle as we drive past them, watching us.
I’m wearing a silver beaded Oscar de la Renta gown, the bodice cut daringly low, and the daintiest matching heels. Priceless diamonds sparkle around my neck. I feel gorgeous and sexy, these emotions amplified by the open appreciation in Nicolas’s dark eyes. My billionaire lover can have anyone, and he wants me.
He reaches out, encircles my wrists with his fingers, his skin surprisingly rough, and he pulls me to him, uncaring of our audience. I tremble with anticipation, molding my body against his, my skirt swirling around his legs. We fit together perfectly, his hardness pressing against my stomach, this proof of his desire thrilling me.
I pluck at his silk tie, loosening the fabric, freeing that small part of him. The exposed skin near his shirt collar fascinates me. I press my lips to his neck, flick my tongue over him, tasting salt and man. He shudders, runs his calloused hands down my bare back, under the gown, igniting tiny fires within me.
God, he feels good. I arch, rubbing my breasts against his chest, my nipples taut and sensitive. He nuzzles into the curve where my neck meets my shoulders, the stubble on his chin, stubble I hadn’t previously noticed, teasing me, adding more delicious friction to his sensual assault. I turn my head. People are watching us, and this excites me. I need to show them more skin, more of him.
I push the navy blue jacket off Nicolas’s broad shoulders and rip his crisp white shirt. Buttons pop, the plastic disks pinging against my chest, the pain snapping more of my control. The fabric parts, revealing tattooed wings, a black-and-white sun.
It’s Hawke’s tattoo. I glance upward. Nicolas captures my mouth, the intensity of his embrace driving my head backward, scorching my confusion. He jabs into the seam of my lips, demanding my submission, and I give everything to him, opening my lips, letting him inside me. Our tongues slide, tumble, tangle. He wraps my hair around his fingers and pulls. Pinpricks of pain shoot across my skull, his dominance making me wet, the musk of my arousal filling the limo.
As Nicolas ravishes my mouth, I slide against him, riding his leg, the pressure against my clit delectable. I’m burning up, the need inside me escalating. He releases my hair and glides his hands under my dress, cupping my bare ass. His palms curve around me, and he silently coaxes me with his fingers to move faster, to rub harder. I obey, panting, the small sound smothered by his lips. A band of emotion tightens around my chest. Every breath is a struggle.
It’s not enough for me, and Nicolas knows this. He pulls on the bodice of my dress, freeing my breasts, the cool air caressing my skin. I tumble back into my seat, my legs parted wantonly, my chest bare, and I gaze upward, doubt dampening my desire. He’s so handsome, yet something is missing. Someone is missing.
“Turn your head to the left.” His voice is deeper, the command in his tone undeniable. I reluctantly comply. Men press their faces against the window, staring at me, at my white skin, pink nipples. They want me and I wiggle, my inner pervert ecstatic. “Watch them as they watch you,” he rumbles.
Hot lips drag down my neck, between my breasts, the smoothness of his flesh coupled with the coarseness of stubble, the combination exquisitely male. This is as arousing as hell, but it isn’t right. I blink, my brain fuzzy with passion. Nicolas is clean shaven. I shouldn’t feel stubble.
Confused, I glance toward him. Nicolas’s gaze meets mine, his dark eyes blazing with disapproval, and I cringe, fearing he’ll stop, leaving me alone and unsatisfied.
“Watch them,” Nicolas barks, emphasizing his directions with a sharp nip under my right breast, the pain curling my toes, pushing me closer to fulfillment. “Good girls earn rewards.”
I turn my head, wishing to please him, to be the good girl he wants.
“That’s it, Belinda.” Nicolas licks my skin, soothing the hurt he caused, and I glow, happy for his approval. “Look at how much they want you.” He circles my right nipple with his tongue, his sensuous orbits becoming smaller and smaller. “They want to fuck your tight little body, to come all over your beautiful breasts.” He flicks my nipple and I cry out, arching, pushing my curves against him. “They yearn to touch you, but they can’t. They can only watch. You’re mine.”
“Forever?” I ask breathlessly.
“Forever.” He covers the taut peak with his mouth and sucks. I scream, lifting off the seat, my mind splintering into a thousand pieces, my soul engulfed in flames. He’s relentless, his grip on me tight and unforgiving. I writhe under him, clasping his head, his hair too short to find a handhold in as I struggle to escape, the pleasure too much, too delicious. He doesn’t release me. He’ll never release me. I’m his, no longer alone, forever claimed by my billionaire.
I still, my heartbeat slowing once more. The crepe de chine fabric of my dress slides over my legs, a soft, endless caress. The scent of leather and engine grease and hot, aroused man fills my nostrils. The audience at the window remains. Some of the men I recognize from college, the bus, other places. Many of the men are strangers.
I blindly caress Nicolas’s back, exploring the dip near his spine, the bulge of his muscles, the lifted ridges I suspect are scars. He laves and nibbles on my left breast, building my passion once more, and I undulate, stroking him with my body, wishing I could gaze at him yet not wanting to disappoint him. “Can I—”
“No,” Nicolas growls, denying my request before I can state it. His voice is deep, not his own. His heavy form lifts from mine, cool air rushing between us. Fabric rustles. “Pull your skirt up. I want to look at you.”
I hesitate. I’m bare under my skirt. He’ll see all of me, my closely cropped brown curls, my pink pussy lips, the moisture on my thighs.
“Belinda.”
My spine snaps straight, the authority in Nicolas’s voice allowing no refusal. I lift the hem of my dress to my waist and wait. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch me. Feeling his gaze on my naked flesh, I squirm with embarrassment.
“I was wrong about you, wasn’t I?” Nicolas cups my mons and I jerk, surprised, aroused. “You’re not a good girl. No good girl is this wet.”
“I’m not a go
od girl,” I whisper, ashamed. A good girl wouldn’t be as needy, as turned on as I am. She wouldn’t want to be watched, touched, sucked. I know this. I’ve always known this. In the past, I’ve been more controlled in bed, hiding my perversions, sacrificing my sexual satisfaction to gain respect. This was easy to do with the men . . . the boys I dated. They didn’t expect, didn’t push me for more.
“You don’t deserve forever, do you?” Nicolas spreads my legs wider, his grip forceful, his rough handling making my pussy twitch with delight. “Kinky little perverts like you get one-night stands, not wedding rings.” He presses against me, his firm flesh probing my entrance.
His hard, bare flesh. “Condom,” I gasp, not daring to look at him, hoping my obedience will sooth his anger, prove my worth.
“You don’t want me to wear a condom.” Nicolas pushes into me. He’s large, so damn large, stretching me to the point of pain. I whimper, tilting my hips to ease the delectable tightness.
“That’s safe, and naughty girls don’t play it safe.” He sinks deeper, his cock head sliding farther and farther into me.
“You want to be fucked hard and fast.” Nicolas thrusts, burying himself to his base, and I cry out, clinging to his shoulders, filled as I’ve never been filled before. I feel everything, the bloom of his tip, the veins on his shaft, the coarse hair tickling my feminine folds.
“Look at the men,” he growls, pulling out to his cock head. “They’re watching as I fuck you.” He drives back into me and I gasp, my body humming with need. “They’ll watch as I fill you with my cum and then walk away.” Nicolas pulls out, drives into me, escalating my desire. “Is this what you want to be? A one-night stand?” He repeats the motion again and again.
I should say no, shove him off me, leave with my pride and ambitions intact. Instead, I wrap my legs around Nicolas’s waist, dig my heels into his clenched ass, and demand, “More.”
Nicolas ruts into me faster, harder, smacking my ass against the leather seat, my skin heating at all points of impact. I’m my mother’s daughter. This is why I walk away from temptation, why I don’t prowl the clubs with Cyndi or encourage men like Hawke. I want to be fucked this way, wildly, savagely, like an animal, our bodies colliding, our encounter witnessed by strangers, my naked body on display.
