by Ivy Carter
Exhausted, emotional, somehow completely satisfied, I slump back on the sofa and tilt my head back. “Holy fuck,” I say, unable to stop from laughing. It’s ridiculous how much I’ve opened up for this impossible man, while he sits across from me, seemingly unaffected.
I blow out a steady breath. “Your turn.”
Holden shakes his head. “It’s not time for that just yet.”
The rejection stings, but I slough it off, and tug my skirt down over my hips. Crawling from the couch to the floor, I make my way over to him. My hands move from the carpet to his shins, then inch up his thighs.
He doesn’t reach for me, but he doesn’t pull away either.
I take it as invitation.
My fingers kneed into his thighs, and my hand cups his groin. His cock is hard, and warm beneath his jeans, and I am suddenly desperate to release it from its constraints. I begin to unbutton his pants, timid at first, and then with increased urgency. My hand slips into the waistband and brushes against his skin.
He grabs my wrist. “Not like this.”
Together we stand. He slides his jeans and briefs down over his hips. Sweet Jesus. His dick is even thicker, longer than I dreamed. Impossibly, I go wet again.
I reach for him—anxious to touch him, cup his firm ass in my palms, or run my tongue along his throbbing shaft—but he blocks my hand, and quickly spins me around. Before I know it, I’m pressed up against the wall, my hands splayed open, legs spread.
Holden pushes up against me.
His cock is warm on the cheeks of my ass. I can feel him grip it, dragging the head across my lower back, and then down along my buttocks.
“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” he says, grunting, panting.
And I realize he’s jerking off.
I fend off disappointment and tell him I want to feel his thick cock in my pussy, pulsating in and out until I scream out his name. “I want to make you come,” I say, my voice growing hoarse.
He continues to grunt, and moan, and pant.
I can hear the climax building in his voice, and so I keep talking, imagining how it would feel to truly have him inside me, our orgasms colliding in an erotic crescendo. He jerks, pushes his pelvis into my buttocks, and warm liquid squirts onto my back.
“Fuck,” he grunts, with a final push.
He rests his forehead between my shoulder blades and grips my hips. I don’t move, not one single muscle, until his breathing slows to a steady rhythm. My heart pounds like a jack rabbit.
What happens now?
Before I can voice the question, I hear the teeth of his zipper clutch together, the buttoning of his jeans. I’m too red faced to turn around. Without looking at him, I go to the couch, and slip into my T-shirt. Come smears across my skin, cool and thick.
“I’ll have my car take you home now,” he says.
He’s so cold and unemotional, I actually get a chill. My skin ripples with goosebumps, and I wrap my arms around myself to ward off an impending shiver. I had no idea what to expect when I came to Holden’s apartment, but it certainly wasn’t this.
Less than twenty-four hours after meeting, I’ve already masturbated myself to climax twice—double the number of times I’ve touched myself in a fucking year. Not the kind of statistic I’m proud to admit.
I’m sure my inexperience pulses like a neon sign, and if Holden wasn’t dubious of this arrangement before, he sure as hell will be now.
“I’m fine to Uber,” I say, feigning nonchalance.
I refuse to allow myself to cry. Not here.
He half snorts. “It’s not safe. My driver will be downstairs in five minutes.”
“Okay, thank you.”
I have no idea why I’m thanking him, because in this moment, I feel exactly as I thought I would—no different than a damn prostitute. And I haven’t even asked my first question, so I’m just giving out freebies.
Correction: Proving myself.
“You may go now,” he says.
His dismissal borders on cruelty, but I won’t—can’t—complain. Holden made it clear that tonight was all about building trust, and if making myself come and then having him jack off on my back doesn’t do the trick…
Well, then I give up.
I gather my purse, my dignity, and my courage. Then I leave without so much as a backward glance.
There’s a lot I don’t know about what happened tonight, but one thing’s for sure: there is no way in hell I’m telling Lindsay about any of this.
Chapter 8
I’m tempted to ignore my cell when it chimes the next morning. Instead, I lift one eyelid and peek at the clock. 8 a.m. I have been home for exactly four hours, and have slept a total of—
Fuck!
I bolt upright. I’m going to be late for my exam.
Ignoring the phone a second time, I wrap myself in a robe, and hurry down the hall to the bathroom. The door is closed, a thin ray of light shining through the bottom, clearly occupied. I bang on it with enough force to rattle the handle. “Lindsay!” There’s a muffled screech, followed by a deep throated chuckle. Jesus.
There’s a guy in there with her.
“Lindsay! I have to get ready for my test.” I bang the door louder. “I’m late!”
I consider throwing on a pair of old sweats and a sweatshirt, but my hair is like silly string.
The door opens a tad as Lindsay pokes her head out of the bathroom. “Close your eyes.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Can you just hurry?”
She breathes out a dramatic sigh. “Unless you want to see Sam’s dick, close your eyes.” At my open-mouthed expression of shock, she laughs. “I’m giving you fair warning.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember whether there was a sock on the door when I came home at three in the morning. Probably not. Sam appears to be an early riser—at least, I hope he is for Lindsay’s sake—and she probably thought I’d already left for class. Most days, she’d be right.
“Okay, you’re in the clear,” she calls. “Be sure to rinse off the tiles.”
Gross.
I open my eyes too soon, and catch Sam’s bare assed reflection in the window. My mind reels back to last night and my brief glimpse of Holden’s firm buttocks before he spun me around and jacked off on my back. Sam’s ass is nothing like Holden’s ass.
Not by a long shot.
I spend three minutes inside the shower, scrubbing my flesh until it’s raw, and then shampooing and conditioning my hair. My hand trails down between my thighs. I skim the outside of my pussy with my thumb, and my breath hitches.
Scenes from last night at Holden’s apartment flash in my memory—his tongue slowly running along his bottom lip, the way his smoldering eyes burned through my skin and stoked the fire in my core, the thickness of his hard cock up against my ass.
The water goes cold, a rude interruption to the movie playing out in my mind.
And a stark reminder that this—whatever happened between me and Holden last night—is not a Nicholas Sparks story. It’s nothing more than a B grade porn flick.
I shut off the tap and quickly towel dry, scrubbing again at the spot on my back where Holden’s imprinted himself on me.
My cell buzzes from the counter. I glance over at the screen and freeze. Daylight Holdings. A lump clogs up at the back of my throat while I wait for the phone to quit ringing. There is no way I am taking a call from Holden Quinn. What the hell am I going to say to him? I haven’t even had coffee yet.
I throw on some clothes, and begin applying mascara when the voicemail icon pops up on my screen. My breath comes out in a stuttering exhale. What on earth could he want? He made his point—got off on me, sent me away. Doesn’t get much clearer than that.
Ignore it.
I tell myself that four more times before succumbing to curiosity. I put the cell on speaker while I pile my hair into a loose pony, allowing curled strands of blonde to frame my face. Dark patches circle my eyes from lack of sleep. My cheeks are blotc
hy. Yikes. Looking kind of rough.
The voice on the message isn’t Holden, and for a split second, I’m kind of bummed. But then I hear what the receptionist says and my stomach twists into fresh knots.
“Miss Faber, this is Anita Baker from Holden Quinn’s office. He has scheduled your first interview question for 7:00 p.m. this evening.” There is a brief pause, and then, “Mr. Quinn suggests you arrive on time.”
Arrive on time?
I hang up and scowl at the phone. Just who the hell does this guy think he is?
But then again, I think he knows exactly who and what he is.
Face burning, I stuff my phone in the back pocket of my jeans, grab my text books and purse from my bedroom, and head to class. No chance I’m letting Holden Quinn screw up my test. He’s already taken up too much space in my brain.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure I flunked the exam.
When I should have been thinking about sociology, my mind drifted to thoughts of Holden. Instead of writing an essay on serial killers, I doodled Holden’s name on a piece of scrap paper like a damn lovesick school girl. I’m fucked, and it’s all his fault.
Which is exactly what I plan to tell him when I arrive at his office at exactly 7 p.m. Not because he demanded it, I won’t give him that power. Oh yes, he’ll be expecting me, but he has no idea the wrath that I’m prepared to unleash now that I’ve had a chance to think about it.
He’s in for the shock of his life.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I take a deep breath and depress the buzzer, alerting him that I’m in the lobby downstairs.
Chapter 9
I expect Holden to meet me at the door of his office, but a receptionist in a too-short skirt and six-inch stilettos comes out of a luxurious boardroom just as I’m going in. I’m immediately self-conscious of my casual attire—a simple dress that hugs my hips, and shows off the maximum amount of cleavage for my personal comfort level. I know better than to compare myself to anyone, and it’s not like I’m here to fuck Holden. Still, my stomach clenches with irrational jealousy.
I lift my chin and remember my resolve to stand my ground.
Holden stands with his back to me, hands in his pockets, staring out over the city sprawled below. My attention is drawn to his ass, and I can’t help but think about the way it looks when his clothes are off.
Scrumptious.
“Have a seat, Miss Faber,” he says, without turning.
Perfect. I’m not ready to look at his face anyway.
I sit in front of a water glass and set my notebook, audio recorder, and a pen carefully on the wooden table. Some kind of elaborate communication system acts as a centerpiece, and next to it, a pitcher of ice and water drips condensation onto the oak. Across the room, portraits of the three men who started Daylight Holdings stare back at me. Mason has fuck me eyes. Lucas is a bona fide playboy—or at least was, until he met his now-pregnant girlfriend, Eden Bradley. And Holden… My throat swells. Holden is a mix of them both, a vision of stoic seriousness peppered with rebellious, sexy as hell angst.
I’ve done my research. While Holden isn’t the most vocal of the trio—that distinction belongs to Lucas—his opinions on everything from gourmet cheese to presidential faux pas are well documented. He likes well-endowed blondes, expensive wine, and no-strings-attached fun. Oh, and he has a temper.
The kind that gets him in trouble.
Despite this, I imagine thousands of women hang on his every word.
Not me.
When this first interview is done, I plan on getting out a few words of my own. I have a feeling Holden isn’t going to like what I have to say.
He turns, and without greeting, takes his seat at the head of the long table. We’re at least five feet apart, but it’s suddenly as if the walls are closing in around me, the very air sucked from my mouth. I take a sip of water and swallow, wincing as the liquid glugs its way down my throat.
What is it about this man that dissolves my confidence like eroding sandstone?
“Have you turned on the recorder?” he asks. I shake my head, and his eyebrow lifts. In truth, I wasn’t planning to use it. The more I think about the interview itself, the worse the idea seems—how can I even trust what Holden is going to say?
But that’s the thing about doing so much research. For all his flaws—and God knows, the media likes to play them up—Holden is a man of his word.
I suppose that’s why he—eventually—scheduled this interview, as promised.
Prove yourself to me
Mission accomplished.
Okay, maybe I’ll ask just one question. See how it goes…
I lick my lips. “Would you like me to get started, then?”
He checks his watch and nods.
I figure there’s no need for pre-amble, so I just dive right in. “Did Roger Moorehouse, at any point in your time together, have any direct conversation with you?”
My voice stutters a little, betraying my nerves. Saying my father’s name doesn’t hurt so much, but the look on Holden’s face stings. His jaw twitches. “If I say no, then you’ve wasted an hour.”
I exhale slowly. “True. But have I wasted an hour, or did you and Mr. Moorehouse have a conversation?”
His lips curl into a sneer. “You assume I would have anything to say to that monster.”
Holden’s response makes me flinch. I try not to show it, but my courage is fast deflating like a popped balloon. Maybe this was a mistake after all. Maybe I should have just—
What? Run?
Fuck, I’ve been doing that my whole life, desperately trying to escape the shame and despair and hatred from everyone who ever knew my father. Those same feelings vibrate from Holden, anger being the most visible, and it’s kind of terrifying.
I’m literally shaking.
Damn it. I hate that this is bringing up bad memories, but I came for a reason, and no matter how uncomfortable this is, I need to know the truth.
“Did he—?”
Holden’s eyes go stormy. “Tell us everything was going to be okay?” He shakes his head. “No. Did he show remorse for slaughtering our classmates? You know the answer to that too. He was a coward, Miss Faber. Nothing more.”
Again, I flinch. Holding the pen tight, I press down on the table to stop my hands from shaking. “He didn’t offer a…” The words gum up in my mouth. “Reason?”
Holden scoffs. “We were just teenagers,” he says, annoyance creasing his tanned forehead. “What possible rationale could he have given that we would understand?”
He’s right, but I keep pressing, looking for something, a word, a phrase, a sign that my father’s actions had some kind of meaning. Not to excuse him—Lord knows I’ll never forgive what he did—but to help me understand. And maybe to give me assurances that I’ll never turn out like him. A kind caring human one day…
A monster the next.
Holden shifts in his seat. “He asked me if I was afraid.”
My gaze lifts. “Were you?”
Holden looks away. “Of course, but I didn’t want him to know that.” He takes a long pull of water and slams the glass down. “We were damn kids. And he had a gun trained on us. What did he fucking think we’d be?”
With each rising pitch in Holden’s tone, my stomach whirls with indecision. I’m grateful he’s opening up, but I don’t want him to get angry.
“A second later he asks another kid—Jamie Provencal—whether she was afraid. She said no…” Holden’s expression darkens. “He shot her anyway.”
I suck in a gasp.
“Asshole said he could tell Jamie was lying.”
My head goes light. I can’t parse this description of my father, can’t navigate the memories from my early childhood with those after this tragedy. He was both Jekyll and Hyde, two extreme versions of each personality.
I blink back a tear and try to steady myself. I have to keep composed at all costs.
“I’ll never forget the sound of that first shot,�
�� Holden says, his voice cool. “It wasn’t the only one, of course, but it’s the one I remember best because in that moment, things changed. I changed.”
I resist the urge to ask him how the incident reshaped his life, reserving that question for much later in our 10-hour conversation. Instead, I focus on this moment, and the memories Holden seems to be drawing from, as though the incident is fresh and not years and years in the past.
“Did he appear frightened? Nervous?”
Holden snorts with disgust. “He was in control, heartless, and without empathy or emotion, the whole time.” He leans back in the chair, and glances over at the pictures of the other two men that survived that fatal day. “Lucas asked him why he was doing it.” He turns back, and stares at me. My stomach flips. I could swear he can see through me and straight to my big fat lie. That he somehow knows I am the daughter of that monster.
“And do you know what he said in reply?”
Bile rushes up my throat. I shake my head, too scared to open my mouth and vomit all over the Daylight Holdings boardroom table.
“He said, “Today, I will be God, judge and jury.””
I cup my hand to my mouth and stand, knocking the tape recorder onto the floor. My stomach roils like it’s a wasp nest buzzing with larvae.
Holden stands and grabs the pitcher of water. As he refills my glass, I try not to fall over. I’m dizzy, but mostly I’m embarrassed and shocked. Holden holds out the water. “Do you need a drink?”
I shake my head.
“You’re pale,” he says. “Can you sit?”
I can’t. But I’m not sure how long I can stand in one place either. “I think I just need to use the restroom.”
Holden stares at me a beat, as if assessing whether I’m telling the truth, and then motions toward the door. “Do you need me to walk you?”
My stomach wrenches and I shake my head, half running, half race-walking to the bathroom down the hall.
