I did want to hear her stance, though.
She tilted her head again, her eyes lifting upward and to the left as she considered. “I suppose I’d have to let somebody in the company take the fall for me. Which is terrible. And I feel godawful about saying that.” She wrapped her hands around her belly as though it gave her an ache.
I stared at her hard. “Why?” Did my voice tremble when I asked? “Why would you let someone else take the fall?” That didn’t seem like her character at all.
“I’d want to do the right thing. And the problem is the right thing would’ve been to never be involved in the scandal in the first place. But as an officer and a board member, you told me that my main responsibility is to protect the best interests of the shareholders. All of the shareholders. I would imagine that if a major officer went down in a big scandal, that wouldn’t be good for the best interests of the shareholders. So wouldn’t the right thing, wouldn’t the most ethical thing, be to uphold my responsibility to the people counting on me? Protecting the shareholders would protect the integrity of the company, which would protect the majority of the employees. It’s the best answer for everyone.”
It was the right answer. It was the answer that would keep Dyson Media afloat if it was ever embroiled in the kind of scandal we were talking about. The answer that a wise, business-minded person would give.
But it was also the wrong answer.
Because I wanted her to say something else, wanted her to change the decisions of other people with what she’d said.
It was stupid, but it made me upset, made me mad all over again at my mom and my dad and all the other people who did stupid things.
I pushed her feet off of my lap, and then pulled her roughly onto it instead.
I brushed her hair to the side, kissing along her neck, biting her fair skin, until it turned red and angry.
“Did I say the wrong thing?” she asked in between gasps.
“Nope,” I said shortly.
“But you’re upset.”
“Yep. I’m upset. And now I’m going to fuck you.” I quickly unbuttoned her blouse and pulled down the cup of her bra, so I could get her nipple in my mouth, so I could tug it between my teeth until she whined.
“But you are upset?” she asked again, even as she rubbed her trouser-clad pussy against the rock hard bulge in my jeans. “At me?”
“Not at you.” I sucked on her nipple some more and then took over pinching it with my fingers between my thumb and forefinger. “And at you, too, maybe. It doesn’t matter. We’re going to fuck it out and everything’s going to be fine.”
I tangled my other hand in the back of her hair and yanked her head back so I could lick along her neck up to her mouth. Then I kissed her wildly, aggressively, as though I could wipe out everything she’d said with my tongue, and replace it with my own saliva.
We moved fast, and urgently, and she didn’t ask again about my mood or where it came from or who it was pointed at; she just seemed to understand that she could fix it and was intent on fixing it fast. We only undressed as much as needed to fit ourselves together, moving as quickly as possible. While I worked on getting my cock out of my jeans, she stood up right there on the chair, placing a leg on either side of me as she pushed her trousers all the way down below her knees until they bunched at her ankles.
Then she sat down on me, taking my cock inside her expertly after only—what had it been? A week plus the one night before she went on her trip. She knew how to line me up, knew how to swallow me in, and she was still so new at this—new at me. Damn, she was a quick learner. Sharp and astute and fun to challenge.
Even more fun to let her ride.
When she was seated on top of me, and I was so deep, so snug in her tight pussy, I wondered for half a second if I should wait for her to stretch and get used to me before plowing into her the way I needed to.
But before I could make up my mind, she took over, bouncing on me exactly the right way, up and down, fast, hard, fucking herself with my cock like she needed it as much as I did. Like it hurt her as much as it hurt me not to be completely inside her over and over and over again.
And when she began to wear out, and her rhythm slowed, I put my hands on her hips and did the lifting for her, forcing her up and down, up and down, up and down, making her take all of me, take all of this rage and anger and betrayal.
She came without me once even touching her clit, just from the position, just from her body rubbing against my pelvis in the right way. And when she threw her head back and cried out my name, I lifted my hips up and bucked into her from below, thrusting wildly as though I were driving away the nightmare that had become my life in the last seven years. Chasing it chasing it chasing it away until finally my own orgasm came and there was light and bliss and warmth and a life that was almost in my grasp if I could just hold onto it somehow, somehow.
And then it was over. Gone.
I wrapped my arms tightly around Elizabeth, pulling her to my chest, kissing her forehead and her face, any part of her my lips could reach, my eyes still half blind from the spots my climax had spattered in front of them. I didn’t feel angry anymore, or upset, or even disappointed.
I just wanted to go home. To my real home, in the city. The place I’d built for myself with my own sweat and hard work and—yes, Mom—sacrifice.
So we gathered up our stack of books, loaded up the car, and Elizabeth and I headed back toward my apartment in Manhattan. And, for the first time since we’d started the schedule of living together, I was really glad I had someone to go home with me.
Eighteen
I could feel the blood run to my face as I read the Google alert that had come through on my email. The headline had to be wrong. I clicked through to scan the entire article, my jaw dropping with each new word.
“What’s wrong?” Weston asked from the seat next to me in the back of the car. It was Sunday, and we were driving to get Weston fitted for his tux. I didn’t need to go along with him, but there was a fundraiser ballet afterward that we planned to attend together—part of playing the role of couple, of course—and it was just easier if we went to the fitting together first.
Or maybe that was an excuse.
I also found that I liked being near him a lot lately. And not just because of the sex.
Right now I was especially glad he was around, because I couldn’t deal with the shock of this article on my own.
I looked up from my phone and over at him, shaking my head. So many thoughts were rushing through my mind, and I couldn’t figure out which one to hold onto. I searched his face, as if he could read my mind and find the thoughts that needed to be spoken, bring them to my lips.
He studied me right back, then realizing the source of my anguish was my phone, took it from me and quickly read the article on the screen. The statement said that Dyson Media was selling off the advertising portion of the company, the very subsidiary that I intended to let Reach buy at a very reasonable cost after I got my hands on my inheritance.
When he was done reading, he frowned, but he didn’t seem quite as upset as I would be in his shoes.
“I won’t let him go through with it,” I promised aimlessly. “I’ll find a way to stop Darrell from selling.” I’ll find a way to make this—us—worth it for you.
I didn’t know how, but I had to.
“I’m not worried about that part,” Weston said. “What worries me is him trying to start a sale at this point in time, only a month away from our wedding—” He broke off as he handed the phone back to me.
“It’s as though he isn’t factoring me in at all. Does that mean that he’s so confident he can prove we’re a fraud that he doesn’t think I’ll actually get my hands on the company? Or is this a head game, and he’s trying to freak me out? Because it’s working.” I twisted the ring on my fourth finger, wondering how long it would be there if this deal went through.
In the few short months I’d worn it, I’d become accustomed to it and of
ten found myself playing with it, especially when I was nervous or worried.
Like now.
Weston glanced down at me, noticed me fidgeting and pulled his own phone from inside his suit jacket, scrolled through to find the contact he wanted, and put it on speaker. As the phone rang, he said, “I’m sure it will be fine, but D will know what to do. He probably has—”
He was cut off by Donovan’s voice coming clear and loud from the phone. “I already know, and I’m on it.”
“What does ‘on it’ mean?” I asked, sitting forward so he could hear me.
“Oh, you’re there too?” He sounded irritated, snappier than usual, which only made my anxiety worse. If Donovan was in a bad mood about the situation, surely there really was something to worry about.
“We’re both here,” Weston said. “I have you on speaker. Tell us what you’re doing.”
“Donovan, if I’d thought for even one second that Darrell would try to sell the advertising portion of Dyson Media, I would never have offered that as a bargaining chip. Darrell barely blinks at the advertising company. I didn’t even think he knew it existed from as much attention as he normally gives it.” I couldn’t explain my guilt. My cousin’s actions weren’t my own, but I did feel responsible for the predicament we were in now.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Donovan said, possibly trying to be reassuring. “And I approached you with the idea, not the other way around. But there’s no way the sale can go through before your wedding. At which time your lawyers will step in and halt all major deals from proceeding. I’ve already sent your team to work on the matter.”
I could practically hear the quotations around the word your.
“Meanwhile, I’ll need to send someone over to France to make sure your cousin isn’t trying to overhaul things at the firm in preparation for the sale. I’ll reach out as a potential competing buyer, and slow things down that way.”
“He won’t sell to you,” I said. “He knows Weston is one of the owners of Reach.”
“And I’m sure all of this is just a scare tactic because of that. I don’t need him to actually sell to me anyway. I just need to be a speed bump. I imagine I have a contact or two that can help with this.”
Weston gave a shrug of his shoulders that said the plan was better than anything else we had.
And truthfully, it was a pretty good plan. I probably didn’t need to worry about it, and everything would go exactly as Donovan said.
But it did scare me that Darrell had made this move. It meant he either felt threatened, or he knew somehow. Knew that I was using this small piece of Dyson Media as the ace in my hand. And the only reason he would know that would be if someone had talked.
But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
“I’ll need to get some papers signed by you for the lawyers,” Donovan said. “Where can I find you today?”
“We’ll be at Colletti’s Tuxedos in about two minutes,” Weston said. “And our afternoon is already booked.”
“Then I better hurry and get the papers together so I can meet you there.” Donovan hung up without even saying goodbye.
Weston pocketed his phone and shifted to look at me. “He’s calling your bluff. He doesn’t know anything. He’s guessing that I would want that company. If anything, this means he believes in our marriage, and he knows that when we get married and you take over the company, I would want to take the ad company and give it to Reach.”
I nodded. It made sense, what he was saying. More sense than Darrell having a mole inside Reach.
“Okay. Maybe that’s right. But why would he do this now, if the sale can’t possibly go through before our wedding date?”
“He might not think you pay enough attention. He might hope you’re too busy with the wedding and the honeymoon to even notice the sale go through. And,” Weston said, his eyes sparking a little, “he might’ve even tried to get the sale to go through earlier and been delayed. For this reason or that.”
I relaxed just slightly, and noticed the whole side of my body was touching his when I did. He put his arm around me and brought me in closer. “Thanks for talking me down.”
I felt so secure in his arms. He smelled so good, and his body was so warm. I wanted to take his strength and believe in it, but I reminded myself for the hundredth time that it wouldn’t last. “I’m just so afraid he’s going to find out this is a fake wedding, a fake marriage—”
“Hey,” Weston pushed me away just enough so that he could meet my eyes. “You need to stop calling this a fake wedding. This is a real wedding. I am really getting married to you, Lizzie. You are really going to be my bride. In one month, you are going to be Mrs. King.”
I took a deep breath in, and thought about that for a moment. I was really getting married to the man whose arms were holding me. I was going to stand up in front of all our friends, family, and business associates in a white dress and walk down the aisle toward him. Toward Weston.
And when everything was over, when the marriage had been dissolved and the final papers signed, that memory would still be real.
I realized my heart was pounding, racing faster than it usually did.
“You’re going to be Mrs. King,” he repeated as the car pulled over to the curb in front of Colletti’s Tuxedos. “Which means you need to start acting like a queen.”
I shivered a little at the thought of ruling by his side.
Married.
I was getting married.
We checked in at the counter for Weston’s appointment, then he perused accessories on the wall while I watched a handful of men parading around in matching tuxes nearby. A few women were with them, critiquing the fits of their suits, laughing and having a good time. One of them was obviously the bride, deciding how she wanted her party to look, giving her attention to every detail of what would be the best day of her life. Certainly the most expensive. She went up to the one that had to be the groom and brushed lint from his shoulder before kissing him on the lips. “You look so sexy, baby,” she said, flirting.
Was that the role I was supposed to play here today?
When her fiancé left for the fitting room with the tailor, she went back to giggling with her girlfriends and scrolling through her phone.
Perhaps that was how a normal bride acted, but it wasn’t how this bride was going to act. It wasn’t how Mrs. King would act.
It wasn’t how this queen would act.
When Weston’s tailor called him forward, I stood up and followed. Weston glanced over his shoulder at me and cocked his head, slightly confused.
“I’m just playing my part,” I said.
That seemed to mollify him, and we walked into his assigned fitting room together.
The tailor didn’t seem bothered at all by my presence and pointed to a chair where I could sit while Weston went into the dressing room to get into the tuxedo. It was his second appointment. The first time he’d come in on his own to be measured for the initial suit. This time, the outfit was being fitted to his body in particular. It was all about adjustments and hemming. He’d said it wouldn’t take too long, but I’d never been to a tux or suit fitting, so I didn’t know exactly what to expect.
I had expected that Weston would be drop-dead sexy when he walked out of the dressing room—I just didn’t expect to actually drop dead from his sexiness.
The tuxedo he’d worn the night of the engagement party had been a traditional fit, and he looked suave and hot, but this one was an ultraslim fit with a vest, and it hugged every part of his body, as though it had been molded to him.
I trailed my teeth along my lower lip, trying to manage the breath that was desperately trying to escape my body at the sight of him.
One thing was for sure, I couldn’t sit through this. I had to stand, stand and watch while the tailor did his work. The gentleman who was working with Weston—Colletti himself, I soon learned—frowned at the sight of Weston. I couldn’t understand that—what was there to frown at? But I stepped close
r, trying to see the same flaws in the fit as he did.
The man bent down to kneel at Weston’s feet and tugged first at the pant leg. “These are the shoes you’ll wear?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered before Weston could answer. Colletti glanced at me. I nodded. “He needs to wear suspenders to keep the pants in the right place.”
Weston growled. “I hate suspenders. I’ll be fine without suspenders.”
I looked from Weston to Colletti. Colletti shrugged. “If you want the classic flare to last through the whole event, you wear the suspenders.”
I could see what Colletti was saying now, about where the pant hit on the shoes. Without a belt to keep them properly at Weston’s waist, and everyone knew you didn’t wear a belt with tuxedo pants, the pants drooped and the leg fell too far onto the shoe. “He’ll wear the suspenders.”
Weston moved his eyes toward mine, and I could see the challenge behind them, but there was something else too. Admiration? Respect, maybe.
He didn’t argue, which was good, since I was the one picking up the tab for this whole wedding thing. Was this what it was like to act like a queen?
It sure did feel pretty good.
Colletti went on to examine the jacket sleeves that were slightly too long—the shirt didn’t show a half inch beyond the cuff. He made some markings, then turned Weston around to look at his back. He pulled me over for this.
“The shoulders fit good, see? And through here.” Colletti gestured at the middle of Weston’s torso. Then he tugged at the bottom of the jacket. “But this—this length was okay twenty years ago. Today we tend to keep it shorter, just below the behind.” He lifted the back of the jacket for a second so he could figure out where to adjust it higher, and there was Weston’s perfect ass, molded into the slim tuxedo pants.
Dirty Sexy Player Page 19
