Snapdragon (Love Conquers None Book 1)

by Kilby Blades

  “You know everything about the most important thing in my life,” she pointed out.

  “Your work.”

  “Yes, my work. And I’m not ashamed that it’s my priority.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  His voice was soft but his words weren’t kind. The fabric of her compassion was becoming threadbare. She was going to have to break it down for him.

  “Rich. I don’t need this job. I don’t need to work another day in my life if I don’t want to. I’m here because I choose to be. Even though my boss hates me. Even though patients die. Even though one of my best friends doesn’t trust me to make my own choices.”

  At last, he looked repentant.

  “I’ve spent the majority of my life under my father’s thumb. The last thing I will ever need is more people telling me what to do. So promise me that we are never having this conversation again.”

  He nodded. “Forgive me. I’m…not myself.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed him. But she was glad to bring the conversation to a close.

  Bored from a slow night at work and too tired to focus on her research, Darby mindlessly checked apps on her phone in between consults. She had a bit of a routine—first she cycled through her e-mail, then her Instagram and Facebook. If she was desperate, she browsed Vine, and when she could barely stand from fatigue, she might default to Candy Crush.

  At the moment, watching Tasty videos on Facebook was not only making her depressed about her lack of cooking prowess—it was also making her hungry, which was not a good thing given her limited choices. She was about to abandon the app altogether when something new popped into her feed. Ben and Tami posted a happy picture of themselves at what looked like a fancy restaurant, announcing that, as of today, they’d been married for four months.

  Four months.

  Had it been so long since she and Michael had begun sleeping together? It didn’t feel like that much time had passed, yet it simultaneously felt as if they’d known each other for much longer. Between his frequent business trips and her odd work schedule, they barely saw each other more than once a week, but when they were together, it counted.

  On impulse, she pressed the “Share” button and private messaged Ben’s status to Michael. A minute later, her phone was ringing in her hand.

  “So today’s our four-month fuck-aversary?”

  She laughed, a bit of her energy returning.

  “I guess it is.”

  “I should’ve bought you flowers.”

  “Flowers are for boring boyfriends. You can do better than that…”

  “Are you doubting my creativity?” His voice became low and her nipples tightened at the thought of how creatively he’d made her come the night before.

  “Not that…” she drew out, allowing her own voice to lower. “Never that.”

  “How soon can you get out of work?” he asked.

  “I’m still stranded ‘till ten. I thought you had to work late, too.”

  “Suddenly I’m having trouble concentrating.”

  An hour and thirty-eight minutes later, the elevator doors to his penthouse were opening and he was on top of her the second she stepped out. Sliding his hand behind her neck, he pulled their bodies flush and invaded her mouth with a ravenous kiss. She heard the thud of the large purse she’d packed with clothes for the next day hit the floor. Sliding her hands around his waist, she began to untuck his shirt. He moaned as she kissed him and pulled at her bottom lip with his teeth as her cool hands met the hot skin of his back.

  She felt his hands tugging at her oversized lapels. He realized right away that she wasn’t wearing her usual coat. Pulling back, he looked down and took in her appearance more fully.

  “What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the shimmery black trench coat he’d never seen before.

  She silently congratulated herself for stopping at her house before coming to Michael’s. “My fuck-aversary coat.”

  His eyes traveled lower, slowing as they moved to take in her sheer black panty hose and tall heels.

  “What’s underneath it?” His hand was reaching down. A moment later, his open palm was running up her nearly-nude thigh.

  She moved her own hand to the sash of the coat and pulled slowly until the tie released.

  “Not much.”

  Well aware of his lingerie fetish, she’d been building a small collection. If he ever raided her office, he would find catalogs for Rigby & Peller, La Perla and Agent Provocateur. His eyes flicked up to hers, dark realization dawning.

  “You are in so much trouble,” he growled.

  Darby shifted her weight in a way that allowed her to rub her legs together at their apex. The silk of her tiny panties was no match for the wetness that was building there.

  “What am I being punished for?”

  There was no playfulness in his eyes when he looked at her then.

  “For making my body crave yours every second of every day.”

  His words knocked the wind out of her.

  “For giving me mental images of you in lingerie that make me hard for you every night I’m gone,” he continued.

  Darby’s heart thundered so hard in her chest that her breath became shaky. He had looked at her like this before, with wild desperation. But now he’d confessed it out loud. She owned some part of him. But she couldn’t return with words that every cell in her body knew were true.

  You’re the best I’ve ever had.

  I dream of you.

  You own some part of me, and I hate myself for letting you.

  “Give me what I deserve,” she whispered.

  She had hoped her punishment would begin with a good hard fuck against the glass wall of his living room. Maybe another one in the hallway en route to his bedroom, and even more once they reached his bed. There was something she loved about waking up in the morning and following their trail of discarded clothes. But all of that would be for another time. He had different plans for her. They involved teasing her for what felt like hours without letting her come.

  They did leave a trail of clothing as they made their way to his bed—her coat draped against the back of his sofa, her panties in the hallway, her shoes at the threshold of his bedroom door. He had lifted her high up against his panoramic windows, her thighs on his shoulders as buried his mouth in her pussy. When she’d begged him to let her come, he’d eased her down gently, first onto her feet, then onto her knees as he’d fucked her mouth instead. On the way to his bedroom, they had kissed as she tore his clothes off, and tried to take off her own, but he’d made sure she kept her bra, garters, and panty hose on.

  As she lay on his bed, she felt desperate. What he was doing to her was sweet agony, and she was aching to come. His long middle finger was inside her and his eyes were affixed on hers. They both knew how firmly he was holding her in limbo, how with one hard stroke of his finger or smart flick of his tongue, she would go off.

  “You have an iron will,” she’d taunted in a strangled voice.

  “I have a photographic memory,” he whispered, stroking her at a pace that was painfully slow.

  “Is this how you want to remember me?” she panted.

  His finger had gone in to the hilt, and was now withdrawing in another measured stroke.

  “No,” he’d said, his finger exiting her completely, not breaking contact, but sliding lower. So easily, it slid into her other entrance, the pad of his finger pressing firmly on some other glorious spot.

  “I want to remember you like this,” he said simply, breaking their gaze to sharply suck her clit.

  She fell, completely, apart.

  MEET ME AT MY APARTMENT.

  They hadn’t seen each other in six days—she wasn’t even sure where he’d been that time. When he’d texted two hours before saying he’d taken an earlier flight, she’d gladly obeyed his command.

  She was surprised to find him in the lobby of his building when she arrived. His muscular chest and arms looked amazing beneath the dark
gray Henley he wore. He stood barefoot in an old pair of jeans that reached the floor and something told her he was fresh from the shower. Before he saw her, she watched him hold court at the reception desk. They were all laughing—Javier the doorman, Jim the security guard behind the desk, and the delivery man who had just handed over a large paper-in-plastic bag. But it was Michael’s smile that lit up the room, Michael who had everyone feeling good. He would’ve made a great politician.

  She recognized the second that he spotted her. His smile widened. His eyes brightened as he took her in. She thought she would melt from how he made her feel.

  “You’re right on time,” he said as she approached, nodding his thanks at the delivery man and shifting the bag of takeout into his other hand so that he could hold hers. He kissed her cheek in the friendly manner they reserved for public greetings. As always, he waited until they were in his apartment to kiss her for real.

  “Prying eyes,” he’d clarified once as they’d ridden the elevator and he’d shifted his gaze up to the iridescent black sphere that she recognized as a camera.

  But once the elevator doors closed behind them and they walked into his space, he hastily dropped the bag on his kitchen counter. Still holding her hand, he pulled her body toward his and devoured her mouth in a hungry kiss. She could feel it already—the familiar magic that happened when they were together. At that moment, it was just a kiss, but she knew how it would manifest next, knew how she would feel it in the desperate way he touched her, how she would see it in the way he looked at her when he moved inside her. Touching Michael always felt like touching the divine.

  When her stomach growled again, he pulled away from her reluctantly and kissed the tip of her nose lightly. Turning away, he dug into the bags to extract the food and began making each of them a plate. Her eyes wandered to the television, which she had just noticed was on. It was the news—they were running a story about her father. Not wanting to sour a nice moment with thoughts of him, she searched for the remote.

  “You look nothing like him,” Michael commented lightly as he spooned green curry tofu onto their plates.

  Darby had been told this all her life. Frank Christensen had a polished movie star look to him—smooth dark hair that was always perfectly coiffured, a smile that tempered cockiness with charm, and blue eyes that foreshadowed mischief. Being compared to a man as striking as her father would have normally been taken as flattery. But for Darby, being told that she was not like Frank Christensen in some way was always the better compliment.

  “I am my mother’s daughter…in more ways than one,” she agreed. Not seeing the remote, she considered walking to the television and turning it off the old fashioned way. Her father’s voice always sounded grating to her.

  “I take it you don’t share his politics?” Michael asked.

  “We disagree on every issue.”

  “Did your mother disagree too?”

  “Their fights were legendary.” Darby didn’t want to elaborate. “How about you?” she asked, shifting her focus back to Michael.

  He stopped what he was doing and pinned her with a remorseless look. “Every time he’s run, I’ve voted for the other guy.”

  You and me both, she thought. Forgetting the remote for a minute, her face broke into a wide smile.

  Later, after they’d eaten and made good use of his bed, the soft vibration of her phone against the bedside table began a split second before the ringtone. As she recognized the guitar intro to We Are Never Getting Back Together, Darby untangled herself reluctantly from the peaceful cocoon of Michael’s waterbed, resplendent with its 800-thread count sheets, to press the red button that would let her decline the call. Twisting back toward the bed, she again wrapped herself in the blissful afterglow of their rendezvous. Sinking in made her feel like she was being enveloped in a warm hug.

  Michael’s footsteps on the bamboo floors could barely be heard as he returned from the inner chamber of his master bath. She had learned to expect the warm washcloth tenderly pressed between her legs. When he was done, he tossed the washcloth on the floor, straightened the disheveled covers and tucked her back into bed. Being cared for like this was splendid and she loved it more than she ever planned to let on.

  Her eyes were trained on Michael. There was a clear line of vision through his enormous dressing suite. Michael even made washing up look sexy. God, his body was beautiful. She was becoming obsessed with his arms—his biceps and triceps were like steel. She especially liked the visual of his corded forearms and long fingers as they did simple things like swipe the screen of his cell phone or make coffee in the kitchen. He hadn’t called her out on her staring, and she was glad because she couldn’t help it. Clothed or unclothed, the man was gorgeous.

  After climbing back in bed, he shimmied close to the middle and tucked his arm underneath her head, pulling her to his side. He was a master cuddler, a fact she had learned from hours of pillow talk. And he’d held to their agreement—to at least six orgasms every time they were together. That commitment meant they had plenty of down time in between rounds. Sometimes they snoozed, but mostly they snuggled, snacked, and talked. She tried not to dwell on how much she was getting used to it.

  “The sushi today was so good,” she murmured, drawing out the “o”.

  “You love sushi.” He said it as if it explained why had started to have lunch delivered to her regularly. Any time Michael even suspected Darby was too busy to eat, Andrew showed up at her office with a brown bag and an effervescent smile

  “Thank you,” she murmured against his chest, sniffing him discreetly as she always did.

  “How many ‘you’re welcomes’ do you need to hear before you stop thanking me?”

  She felt a bit embarrassed. She had thanked him three times that day—once after Andrew dropped off the bag, then after she’d eaten because, holy shit, that shrimp tempura roll been good. And again just now. She had thanked him profusely each time he had done something like that. Eating lunch every day was making a big difference. She had more energy, felt less irritable, and made better snack and dinner choices because she wasn’t so ravenously hungry. Plus, he always ordered from the best places. They worked in more or less the same neighborhood but Michael—or, rather, Andrew—knew his way around the local restaurants better than Darby.

  “It’s just…really nice.”

  As the last word left her mouth, her phone began vibrating again with the same ring tone she had heard a few minutes before. This time she really didn’t want to get up to turn it off. Still, if he’d called twice already, he would probably keep on calling.

  Fucking Felix.

  Rolling over, this time she didn’t merely decline the call—she turned off her ringer altogether. She set her cheek back down on Michael’s chest, and his hand returned to stroking her hair.

  “I take it he didn’t get the memo?”

  Crap. He heard both calls.

  “You know, the one where you told him that you are never, ever, ever getting back together.” He said it in a girly voice.

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Taylor Swift fan.”

  He pulled back a little bit and looked straight down at her. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for one.”

  Fair enough.

  She put her head back on his chest. “He’s holding out hope,” she explained.

  Michael didn’t say anything, but his silence was heavy with expectation. He had a way of coaxing out all the stories that she didn’t want to tell. Sometimes Darby thought that, between the two of them, Michael would have made for a better shrink.

  “He thinks things between us could work if we reimagined them.”

  “Could they?”

  “Oh, wow—we’re gonna do this?” she hedged.

  “Avoid questions? I don’t know. You tell me.”

  It was always like this with them. No small talk or shallow conversation. Like that first night, nothing was out of bounds, no topic too heavy when covered in witty repartee.


  “Felix…” she began, emphasizing the name of her ex-boyfriend, “is a cable network executive. He spends a lot of time in New York and LA.”

  “Is that why you broke up?”

  “Let’s just say we had misaligned expectations.”

  “Did he cheat on you?”

  Michael sounded mildly irritated by the possibility, but it was hard to tell. His guess was so far away from the truth that Darby let out a small laugh.

  “Worse. He wanted to get married. I didn’t.”

  She waited for Michael to express shock of some kind, or at least to question her decision. That was what every other person did when they got wind of the proposal.

  “Well aren’t you going to ask why?” she baited, irritated with herself for even caring whether he was interested.

  “I don’t need to ask why. It’s obvious that Felix wasn’t taking care of you.”

  She didn’t miss how Michael emphasized her ex’s name sarcastically.

  The next thing she knew, she was sitting upright, staring at him expectantly. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because you thank me three times every time I buy you a sandwich.”

  When he put it like that, it sounded a bit depressing.

  “I think you’re overthinking my gratitude for your having bought me lunch.”

  “Am I?”

  He was entirely too observant.

  “You know that you’re more of a gentleman than monarchs I’ve met, right? Your chivalry is uncommonly refined.”

  It was true. Despite her high-society upbringing, Darby was hard-pressed to recall a single person as genteel as Michael. Michael, meanwhile, had grown up on the South Side, where his life had surely involved none of these absurd civilities. And yet, he had shown her more refined attention to her needs in the short time they’d been fucking than Felix had during their entire relationship.

  “And your standards are lower than they should be,” he retorted. “You’re the last woman I know who should settle.”

  Don’t settle, Darby.

  Those were the words her mother had spoken to her over and over again, the one piece of advice she had consistently dispensed, the unspoken confession that said everything—that she’d married the wrong man, that in choosing Frank Christensen, she had made a terrible mistake.