Please just kiss me.
Every muscle, every bone in my body vibrates with need for this man. Just one taste, that’s all I want, one little taste to let me know what it’s like to have his lips on mine.
His hand moves up my side as his breath starts to pick up. I can feel it, him wavering, his wall cracking and crumbling. I can sense his indecision. I can feel his need for me in the firm grasp he has on my body. He wants this, just as much as I do.
Unable to take the standstill anymore, I hook my fingers through his belt loops and bring him in closer. He sucks in a breath as I move one of my hands to his jacket and unzip it, only to slip my hand under the tan sweater he has draped over his body. Who is this vixen, and what has she done with sweet and demure Sutton?
Almost as if he’s in pain, his eyes squeeze shut. “Sutton.”
My nose nuzzles against his, our breath mixing together, our lips inches apart. “Kiss me, Roark.”
“Sutton,” he repeats, this time more strained.
“Please, Roark. Just kiss me.” My hand travels over his rippled abs that contract and flinch under my touch.
His grip on my side grows tighter, his hand spanning over my ribs. “Do you know what I want?” he asks, his nose running down the side of my head to my collarbone. “I want to peel these clothes off you, slowly, then take you to your bed and spread your legs wide.” My breath catches in my chest. “I would kiss every last inch of your legs until I reach your pussy that would be so goddamn wet and ready for me, but I wouldn’t kiss you there. Instead, I would kiss you from your stomach to your tits, where I would worship them.” His lips glide over my skin but never move, almost just a hover of a touch. “Sucking, pinching, nipping. I would taste every inch of them until your hands were pulling on my hair, your moans begging for release, your body writhing underneath mine.”
A low gasp escapes me, because I’m unable to hide how much I want everything he described. Every kiss. Every touch. Every taste. I want it all. Need it all.
“Then I would lower to your legs and do the whole thing all over again until you come from my kisses alone. I would watch you fall apart underneath me and then . . . I would leave.”
“What?” I ask, as if he just performed that entire seduction on me and said he was leaving. “Why?”
“Because,” he murmurs against my skin before pulling away and looking me in the eyes. He pinches my chin with his forefinger and thumb. “You deserve more than me, Sutton.
He pushes off the door, grabs my hand, and helps move me to the side. Shocked and stunned, and also ridiculously turned on, I’m unable to protest as he opens the door and walks halfway out of my apartment. “I’ll see you later, Sutton.”
And then he departs, leaving me angrier and more pissed off than I was this morning.
Who does that?
* * *
Roark: I can feel your anger from here.
Sutton: Wow, you’re pretty attuned to my feelings then.
Roark: I didn’t have to get very far to know how you might be seething.
Sutton: Seething is not a good enough word.
Roark: Why so angry?
Sutton: Hmm, I don’t know, maybe because you keep turning me on and then leave me hanging with no release.
Roark: Did you . . . do anything to take care of it?
Sutton: Yeah, and it felt good, having my hand between my thighs, working out the frustration you put there.
Roark: Fuck.
Sutton: Your loss, Roark. Every time you leave my apartment, or leave me hanging like that, just know that means it’s my hand getting to do the work, not yours.
I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe because it’s eleven at night and Roark is texting me. Maybe it’s because I’ve been physically wound up twice today with no release from the man I want more than anything, but I’m feeling bold and I’m not even sorry about it.
My phone buzzes in my hand, Roark’s name on the screen. I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but knowing him, he would call again, so I answer.
“What?” I lie flat on my bed, my finger twisting a lock of my hair. “Unless this is about camp, I don’t want to talk right now.”
“It is about camp.”
My heart falls. I don’t want him calling me about the stupid camp—I don’t mean stupid, it’s not stupid. I’m frustrated. Sexually frustrated and wound up like a tight ball.
Trying to hide how irritated I am, I say, “What’s up?”
“I booked my flight for Texas for the day after that event I have to go to.”
“Okay . . .” I drawl out.
“That’s it.”
“That’s all you called me for, to tell me you booked a flight when you could have easily taken a private jet down?”
“You know how I am about personal transportation. I don’t mind riding with the masses.”
I rub one of my eyes, trying to comprehend this man. “Okay, well good to know. Thanks for calling me at eleven at night to tell me that. Unless you have anything else to tell me, I’m going to go.”
He’s silent for a second, and I’m about to hang up when he finally says, “Did you think about the event?”
“Yeah, that’s going to be a no for me,” I answer more bitterly than I would have liked.
“Sutton,” he sighs. “Please go with me.”
Okay, I need to take a step back for a second.
Why am I angry?
Because he won’t have sex with me.
Should I be angry at that?
Well, not really, since technically he doesn’t owe me anything. We’re not dating, and we really are only colleagues. It’s not like he’s technically done anything wrong. Are the lines blurred? Yeah, big time, but if this case was brought to a judge does Sutton Green have the right to be mad at Roark McCool? Not really, no.
Resigned, I say, “Who is the event for?”
“Jericho Stanton.”
“The basketball player?”
“Yeah, it’s a fundraiser for the local YMCAs here in the city. He raises a lot of money; it’s a high-end event. He said my donation isn’t good enough this year. He wants me there . . . with a date.”
That puts a smile on my face. “Do your clients always try to shape your life? My dad, Jericho, anyone else?”
He chuckles, the deep vibration rumbling my own body, as if we’re both sitting on my bed and my head is resting on his shoulder. “Yeah, they all have a hand in trying to make me better. I think they worry about me flying off the deep end and hurting their careers.”
“Valid concern.”
“Won’t happen. I know when things start to get bad I pull away from my, as you like to call them, accessories.”
“Do you have to pull away a lot?”
“Nah, I’m pretty good. There are only a few times where I’ve had to assess what I’m doing.” He lets out a sigh. “That’s beside the point. Do you think you can make it?”
“What’s the dress code?”
“Short red dress, lots of cleavage.” And that response right there is why I’m so confused, why I feel like I’m going to combust in seconds from my stomach constantly being rolled into a tight, tight ball.
Unable to commit, I say, “I don’t know, let me think about it.” Before he can respond, I add, “I have to go. Have a good night, Roark.”
I hang up and toss my phone to the side, unsure of what to do. Nibbling on my bottom lip, I consider my options. I can either let him continue to flirt with me, tease me, make me feel electric inside only to tamp it down with a wet towel. Or, I can be the one to set the off-limits boundary, to let him know we are purely working together, and that’s it. After all, that’s all he’s offering. If he wants to talk to me, it needs to be professional—not that he really knows what professional is.
The thought of shutting down his intimate touches just about slices my heart up, but then again, today was a hard day. I’m not sure how many more of these kinds of days I can take.
I think i
t might be time to draw a line in the sand.
Chapter Twelve
Dear Travis,
Not sure I like Travis for you; feels like I’m talking to a two-year-old rather than a listening warrior. I think Travis is a quick no for me.
I made over two million dollars today. With one signature, secured it in the old bank account. Normally I would be elated, but for some reason, it just feels like another day. Ever since I left Sutton’s apartment on Sunday—her tiny fucking apartment—I’ve felt off. Like I left something behind, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is. This is what I do. It’s what I’m fucking good at. Two million in the bank. Should be at the club . . . but that’s not where I want to be.
I leave for Texas soon. I’m dreading it and not because I’m not great with kids, or because the whole cowboy ranch thing isn’t really a shining beacon of my personality, but because I know I’ll be seeing Sutton day in and day out. I don’t think I can face such constant temptation. I barely made it through last week and I only saw her a couple of times.
And the tension between us is increasing at an unhealthy rate. I know I should have stayed away the other night, that I should have just gone home rather than to her apartment, but when I thought I was giving my address to the taxi driver, it was Sutton’s.
I should stay away, but I can’t.
I need to stop thinking about her, but I can’t.
I know I’m frustrating her, but I can’t seem to stop.
Hell . . . when did this diary become all about one girl?
Probably the moment I saw her at Gray’s Papaya. I should have known then she was going to destroy me.
Roark
* * *
ROARK
I have no idea why I’m in my office today. I could have done all my work somewhere else, like in my apartment, or at one of those coffee houses all the hipsters like to hang out in, but instead I decided to come to my office. My boring, plain office that has zero personality or warmth. Not that my apartment is any better, but at least it has my bed. And for two nights, it had Sutton.
Leg crossed over my knee, I look at the city below me, the water tanks on top of the buildings, the gray clouds that never seem to disappear in the winter, and the offices across from mine with people milling about, performing tasks I’m sure they hate.
Three contracts are on top of my desk, my email is full of requests, and my phone vibrates on my desk every five minutes.
Fucking Mondays.
I drag my hand over my face.
The intercom comes to life on my desk. “Mr. McCool, Miss Green is here to see you.”
Well, fuck, I think my Monday just got a whole lot better. I press the red button and say, “Send her back.”
I glance around my office, considering straightening it up but decide better of it. Instead, I strike a casual pose and wait for her to come through my door.
It doesn’t take long and hell, my breath catches in my chest when she walks through, a smile on her face and a thank you to my assistant on her lips.
Wearing a pink wool coat and tight black pants with high heels, she struts into my office with confidence, her slightly curled hair blowing back with her strides. She’s highlighted those devastating eyes with black mascara and her lips, glossy and so goddamn sexy.
I swallow hard, knowing damn well it’s going to be hard to keep my hands to myself, especially when her lavender scent starts to take over my office. Shit, that’s going to stay awhile and most likely drive me crazy with need later.
“Hey,” I say as she takes a seat across from me. My assistant shuts the door, leaving me alone with Sutton, just the way I like it.
She folds her hands on her lap and lifts her chin. Christ, I think I’m about to hear something I don’t want to hear.
“Why don’t you take off your jacket?”
I can see her considering not to, but given how warm it is in my office, she unbuttons her jacket. Like it’s an erotic strip show, I watch her fingers work the buttons out of their holes, parting her jacket ever so slightly until she shrugs the entire thing off, revealing a white silk blouse with black lace bra underneath. Warrior clothes. My girl means business.
Okay, maybe she should have kept the jacket on.
Knowing I tend to stare at her breasts, I lean back in my chair, arm propped up, and cover my mouth with my hand as I force myself to look her in the eyes. It’s painful, but I’m doing it.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, Miss Green?”
I expect her to ask me when I became so proper, but instead, she gets right down to business. “I came to talk to you about our working relationship.”
Yup, I was right. I don’t think I’m going to like the reason she’s here.
“What about it?”
“It needs to stay that way, a working relationship.”
I nod. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Which means we need to stay professional.”
“I love being professional,” I say, as my eyes glance at her tits.
Her nostrils flair. “Do you know what acting professionally entails, Mr. McCool?”
“Mr. McCool?” A smile spreads across my face. “Hell, I like the way that sounds coming off your tongue, but can you do me a favor? Whisper it next time.”
“Roark, I’m being serious.”
“I can tell, from the stick that seems to be shoved up your arse. If you want me to respond, be real.”
I don’t want this fake—prim and proper—Sutton to tell me what she wants. No, I want the tenacious, canny, and unrestrained beauty I’ve gotten to know over the last few weeks. I want that girl to confront me.
“You want me to be real?” Her eyes start to well up. Shit, I didn’t expect her to get emotional. “Fine.” She takes a deep breath and says, “I can’t do this touching, flirting thing anymore with you. We either date, or we’re colleagues. None of this in-between stuff.” Her chest puffs out. “I know what I’m worth, Roark, and I deserve more than being strung along, waiting for the next treat you decide to toss my way. If you want to touch me, feel my skin, cuddle into my back, smell the lavender in my hair, then I need a commitment from you; I want all of you too. If that’s not something you can do, then the texts stop, the touching stops, the flirting stops, and the staring at my breasts stops. If you can’t give me that, then we resume work, finish up this camp, and go our separate ways.”
Fuck.
I know she’s right, we can’t continue this charade—this sexy repartee—without progress or someone getting hurt, but am I really willing to give up the chance to feel her skin against mine? Am I willing to throw away the late-night conversations and the sweet, playful texts from her? They’ve grounded me. Soothed me. Can I lose that?
No. I don’t think I can.
Not really.
But can I give her what she wants? Dating? Commitment?
Fuck, I don’t think so.
I must have been thinking far too long because she stands from her chair and throws her jacket back on. “I’m going to take your silence as your answer that you can’t commit.” She flips her hair out from her collar, letting it fall gracefully over her shoulders and walks toward my office door. “I’ll see you in Texas, Roark.”
“Wait,” I finally say, ungluing myself from my chair and making my way to her. I take her hand in mine and slowly nudge her against the wall, unsure what my next move is. I watch as her chest rises and falls a little more rapidly, how her lips part, and her eyes search mine, looking for answers I don’t have.
“What, Roark?” she asks, her body stiff, her hand loose in mine rather than holding it tightly like she has in the past. I can’t lose her. Can’t.
“I . . .” I swallow hard. “I don’t want you to go.”
“But can you give me what I want?”
“Does it have to be so black and white?”
“Yes,” she answers with conviction. “This isn’t fair to me, to give me little pieces but not the fu
ll thing. If we’re going to be intimate, I want all of you, not glimpses.” She looks at her hands and murmurs, “It hurts me.”
Feeling her slip away second by second, I let out a deep breath. “You know I can’t let you go.”
“You’re going to have to,” she says, side-stepping away from me.
I grab her wrist before she makes a full retreat. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Sutton. I don’t do relationships.”
“You have said I deserve more, so why don’t you try to be the more? Why don’t you want more . . . with me?” Fuck. She shouldn’t be questioning that. Ever.
“Because I know I can’t.”
“Can’t . . . or won’t?”
“Is there really a difference.”
She pulls her wrist away from me. “There is to me. One shows your weakness, the other shows your indifference. I can handle weakness in a man, but indifference, that’s something I don’t bother with.” She looks at me tentatively then shakes her head. “You’re indifferent. I’ll see you in Texas, Roark.”
With one final tug, she exits my office, leaving me in a state of uncomfortable and unexpected panic. I know I can’t give her what she wants—at least I don’t think I can—but I can’t have her slip away.
I push my hand angrily through my hair and turn toward the windows of my office, away from Sutton’s retreating back.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my body vibrating with frustration, my mouth going dry, my veins begging for relief. Apart from the fucking phone call from my ma, I haven’t needed this for weeks, felt this unexplained uneasiness within me. How can watching her walk away stir this . . . unease? This restlessness?
Because she’s the one who gave you the reason to not indulge.
I walk to the mini fridge and grab a few small bottles of whiskey, uncapping them in one twist. I take a long swig, toss the empty bottle and then take down the other. I can’t have her, so I need help easing the pain that’s starting to erupt all over my skin.
* * *
Roark: Can I come over?
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 16
