by Bromberg, K
“I want to apologize for the things I said. I meant no harm by them and—”
I clear my throat at the blatant lie. She shifts her feet and looks around the room. The pained look on her face at having to rephrase her apology that’s already hard enough for her to give is priceless.
But I’m not backing down.
While some good may have come out of the bullshit she handed me, it also caused me to question how I feel about being with Hayes. And because of that, let alone the myriad of other things she’s put Hayes through, I find slight enjoyment in watching her squirm.
I have zero sympathy for her.
“If you’re going to apologize, you might as well not lie in the midst of giving it.”
There’s a flash of anger in her gaze before she reins it in.
“I apologize for insinuating that you were the reason Hayes and I broke up.” She spits the words out like a selfish child refusing to acknowledge she did wrong.
“And?” I prompt. And I’m not sure why I do because I couldn’t care less what this woman says, and yet I’m curious how she will complete the phrase.
“And?”
My phone vibrates against the counter. The sound fills the room as I stare at her. “Yes. And?”
She emits a dramatic sigh and glares at me. “I’m sorry for any trouble I brought to either of you.”
I twist my lips as I stare at her. Hollywood royalty in my tiny kitchen, and I’d never switch places with her for all the money in the world.
“Thank you.”
That’s all I choose to give her. Because while I’m not one to hold a grudge, I’m also not one to forgive blindly someone who has intentionally hurt those I love.
She turns with a flip of her shampoo-commercial-worthy hair and stalks out of the kitchen into the bakery. It’s not until she’s out of sight that I sag against the counter and let the nerves that quietly owned my body at what just happened take over. I blow out a fortifying breath, tell myself to get my shit together and be glad if I never have to see Jenna Dixon again.
However, I know how hard that must have been for her to do. Either that or Hayes threatened her with something . . . because I have a feeling apologies are not something she’s used to giving.
My phone buzzing again reminds me I received a text during that uncomfortable exchange. When I pick it up, I’m greeted by a text message from Hayes.
I hope she’s back there groveling for you to forgive her. It may not be sincere, but Jenna giving an apology is a miracle in itself. And yes—surprise—I am here today. Doing a few interviews. Setting the record straight on the things I can. But don’t think I’m backing down from my promise. No talking. I said ten days, Saylor, and I meant ten days.
My breath catches in my throat when I realize that if Hayes knows Jenna was in the kitchen, then he’s already here. And at the same time, I really hear the words of his text.
He’s not going to talk to me? He’s just going to sit there all day, be available to everyone else, cause a flurry of paparazzi with first Jenna and then him in my bakery, and yet he won’t talk to me?
I snort. Yeah, right.
Needing to see for myself, I head toward the café up front. When I walk through the doorway and see him, every part of my body reacts. My heart. My breath. My nerves. My libido.
And then they shift into overdrive the second he looks up from the person he’s speaking to and locks eyes with mine. I feel like the air has been sucked out of the room, but equally, I’ve been given air for the first time after being deprived of it. He grants me a half-cocked smirk, a raise of an eyebrow followed by an ever-so-subtle lift of his chin. My God, he is desire personified.
But damn him to hell because with his presence, my body comes alive. I want. And need. And crave everything about him. The emotional and the physical. His attention. His laughter. His next minute. His forever.
Time stands still in the seconds we’re connected, so much so that the moment he’s pulled away—a question asked to him by a guy wearing a headset—I wonder how I lived without this feeling. God yes, the current situation is a clusterfuck at best, and yet, it is worth it for this feeling right here. He is worth it and I marvel at how this connection between us can be so strong, so quickly.
But then again, hasn’t it always been there?
Because love is like magic. You can question it—how it happens, when it will happen, why it bowls you over when it does happen, and how you existed before it happened—but you might never get the answer.
Sometimes you just have to believe in it and its process.
Saylor
Watching him is torture. Hearing his laugh and catching his fleeting glances cast my way is comforting. That little zing of current when our eyes do connect before he returns his attention to the interviewer is empowering.
It’s like my body is plugged into an electric current with him here. Every chuckle is a jolt to my libido. Every smile causes a tingle through my body. Each dart of his tongue to lick his lips results in a surge of want coursing through me.
So I opt to decorate cupcakes at the front counter today, unwilling to be separated from him when he’s sitting here in my space. I feign indifference all the while paying attention. He’s charming and courteous and funny during his interviews. He pays close attention to the questions, thinks before he answers, and is entertaining. He also takes the lead, not letting Jenna say too much but smiling politely when she does, except of course when the inevitable question comes up.
The “I’d not be doing my job if I had the two of you together and neglected to ask about the state of your relationship considering the tumultuous rumors over the past several weeks. Is there anything you’d like to clear up?”
“Thank you, but it’s a private matter.” If I wasn’t already standing at full attention, I sure as hell am now with Jenna’s response.
Irritation flickers over Hayes’s face for the first time during the interview. I notice the break in his mask and hear the insincerity in his laugh. “It’s a private matter that was made public, so I’ll address it.” He raises his eyebrows. Looks straight at the interviewer. “Jenna and I dated. We broke up quite some time ago, before it was public knowledge. The relationship had simply run its course. I did not cheat or sneak away to a tropical island to have a secret rendezvous with my mistress. However, in the months following our breakup, I did happen to run into my high school sweetheart whom I hadn’t seen in almost ten years. She had recently split from her fiancé. We reconnected and feelings were still there between us. The rumor that I cheated on Jenna, or that my new girlfriend did anything unsavory, is a complete fabrication made up by someone to sell pictures to the highest bidder.” Hayes breaks his gaze from the reporter and looks to Jenna. His jaw clenches as he waits for her to look his way. “Isn’t that right, Jenna?”
She swallows over the contempt evident on her face. The look that says she wishes what he said wasn’t true, but nods her head in agreement. “Yes, that is accurate.”
“Thank you for being so candid, but I’d like to ask a few follow-up questions about the time frame—”
“Let’s not,” Hayes says with a flash of his smile before expertly redirecting the reporter back to discussing The Grifter. And a few questions into the redirect, Hayes glances over to me, and our eyes hold for a split second before shifting back to the interview. But I see the small show of a smile on his lips. Catch the see, I said I’d make it right in his gaze.
The day wears on. They get a small break between networks where Hayes chats with Ryder and Jenna busies herself with her phone, before they get a touch-up on their makeup and start again. The reporters change, but the questions remain the same.
I take phone orders. I make more cupcakes. All the while remaining present in case Hayes accidentally has a slip in his resolve and wants to talk to me. It’s after about the fourth or fifth interview that my phone alerts with a text. You can stare at me all day but I’m still not talking to you. 44 hours left.
To which I reply, Isn’t this considered talking?
The next interview takes place. Ends. The next set of texts are exchanged. Not talking. Just letting you know how it’s going to be.
How it’s going to be? A part of me likes this side of him. The other part hates it. I fire back a reply: Fine. I’m not going to talk to you either then. 43 hours left.
I watch Hayes take a seat for the next round, pick his cell up from the table, type something out, and then place it inside his suit jacket. Just when the reporter starts the opening question, my phone vibrates an incoming text. Good to know, but I doubt it. I’ll make you talk to me before the end of the day.
When I look up to him, he has a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Silently taunting me and I groan in frustration. The cocky son of a bitch.
You’d be surprised how much restraint I can show. I didn’t punch Jenna, did I? See? Restraint.
For someone who says he’s not talking to me, he sure is communicating. That tells me this silent treatment is just as torturous for him as it is for me.
I think of our Twitter exchange this morning. And smile.
He wants me to bring my A-game?
I’ll bring it all right.
* * *
“I’m gonna head upstairs. I must have left the notes for the new recipe up there.”
“Okay,” DeeDee says, her perma-grin of the day still plastered to her face. She’s a little star-struck and a lot fascinated with the exhausting press junket process that seems both monotonous and exhilarating. “I’ll just be here. Watching. Swooning. Secretly hating you every time he gives you that I want you look of his.”
I laugh at her comment on my way up the stairs. After a few moments, I find my notes, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and when I shut its door, Hayes is standing on the other side of it.
His presence is undeniable. Eyes dark with desire and his fingers fidget at his sides like he’s itching to touch me.
His cologne pervades my nose. The sight of him ignites every single nerve in my body. My nipples harden. My thighs tense while the delta between them aches. I open my mouth to speak—to say “hi, I missed you, screw the forty-something hours we have left”—but the ever-so-subtle curl of the side of his mouth stops me.
Reminds me.
Prevents me.
Tells me he wants to prove me wrong.
I bite my tongue. The amused curiosity in his eyes asks me if I remember my text swore I wouldn’t speak.
A visual war wages between us while our bodies wave the white flag and want to surrender to one another. He lifts a brow. A non-verbal taunt. I respond with a lick of my bottom lip while I run a hand down the side of my neck and between my breasts.
He shifts his feet as his eyes fixate on my hand as it moves down my body. But it’s my gaze that’s caught now. On the bulge in his slacks. On the flex of his hands beside his hips. By the groan he emits deep in his throat that reflects everything I feel in this moment: want and frustration and desire and obstinacy and need.
Hope you brought your A-game, Whitley.
Hayes
She wants to play this game? Tease me? Taunt me with an I’m not going to talk to you either? How I wish it were my tongue running over her body instead of her hand.
You never mess with a man on a mission, and my mission is to have her. Everything about her. Every single way possible in my life.
Right now, included.
So that little text? It was like flicking a lighter and that first spark fizzling out. I plan on flicking it again though, and this time I’ll get a goddamn wildfire. Just on my terms and in my own time.
She stares at me.
Don’t do it, Hayes.
Eyes asking.
You’ve got ten minutes max before the next interview.
Lips pursed.
Flick the lighter, Whitley.
Nipples harden beneath her shirt. Teeth biting into her bottom lip.
But she texted. She taunted.
Body all but calling to me.
Light the flame.
Begging for me.
Said she won’t talk.
Lips part. Chest heaves.
Yes, she will.
I clear my throat and know where this is going to go. How painful it’s going to be for me, but love it all the same.
Her gaze shifts down and takes in my dick, desperately hard for her. Her tongue wets her lips. She draws in a breath and then looks back up to me.
I raise an eyebrow. An I’m not talking, are you going to?
She lifts her chin and just for a split second I’m reminded of double-dog dares in the field behind her house and her frequent defiance to prove a point. I thought it frustrating then. But now? Now with her standing before me—curves and sex and desire and lust in one fucking perfect package—I find her defiance irresistible.
Our eyes hold. Wage a war smothered in silence but loaded with desire.
And want.
And lust.
And need.
There’s a split-second of hesitation where restraint is tested, taunted, and toyed with.
I take a step closer. Flick the lighter.
And then restraint’s broken.
We crash together. Lips and teeth and hands and bodies. Her moan. My groan. Her fingernails scoring. My fingertips bruising.
Both wanting more. Nowhere near getting enough.
Her back hits the wall. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. It’s her. All I want is more. All I think is mine.
And yet I say nothing. Neither does she. Somehow we’re still playing the game, still waging the war.
Her fingers fumble with my belt. My hand palms her tit. She sighs as my mouth claims her neck. Jesus Christ. The woman tastes like heaven. Like a fucking addiction I don’t want to quit.
My hands dip inside the waistband of her skirt. She pulls down my zipper. My fingertips touch her strip of tight curls, part her slit then slide down the line of her pussy.
Now that? That’s heaven. The heat of her. How wet she is. I dive right in without warning. Fingers buried to the hilt.
She cries out. Not a name. Not a word. Just a sound.
And then she tightens around me. Grips my fingers as she drenches my hand.
There’s no way in fucking hell I’m going to be able to stop myself. Fuck the plan. Screw the interview. Make them wait.
And when she wraps her entire hand around my cock and slides all the way down, I freeze. With my fingers still buried in her pussy, and her heat against my hand, I’m a fucking goner.
She works her hand back up, does a little twisting motion over my head, and assaults the nerves there in the best fucking way possible.
I close my eyes. Accept the pleasure. Groan in ecstasy.
And then I hear her chuckle. Know she’s playing me at my game but fuck if I’m not enjoying how she just took the upper hand. What can I say? This woman has her hand wrapped around my cock. It’s been eight days since I’ve been inside her.
Eight.
Whole.
Days.
Fuck.
I grit my teeth in restraint. Hold back—the Fucking hell, Saylor, I want to groan out, and try to process thoughts that she’s slowly erasing with each stroke.
Move, Hayes.
A slide up. A roll of her wrist. A tightening of her fingers. A scrape of nails on the underside of my balls.
Don’t let her make you talk.
My head falls back, but my fingers are inside of her. A reminder to her of what I plan on claiming. Taking. Using to my advantage.
My. God. She. Owns. Me.
It’s only when she shifts, when my fingers slip from her pussy and a throaty laugh falls from her lips that I realize she’s dropping to her knees.
To suck my cock. To wrap her lips around it. Use her tongue. And take what I give her.
She’s winning the war.
I have to step back from the ledge. Do what’s sacrilege: reject the blowjob that I
know will rock my world. And make me talk. Because put a hot, wet mouth and a skillful tongue on a man’s cock and there is no controlling what he says or how tight he’ll fist your hair.
With a pained groan, I put my hand to her shoulder and push her against the wall to stop her descent. Her eyes—so fucking gorgeous beneath desire drugged lids—flash up and lock on mine. The smirk plays on her lips. Her determination to make me talk is written all over her face.
So I hold her there—with both my eyes and my hand to her shoulder—and slip my fingers back into her. I start to work her into a frenzy. With my fingers and thumb. In and out and over her clit. Slide and stroke and flick and rub. Then all over again.
All the while her gaze is on mine. Her lips part. Her hips buck harder into my hand. Her fingers dig deeper into my shoulder. Her breath becomes labored.
I pick up my pace when I feel her pussy start to tighten around me. It’s now or never. So I work the spot within I know she likes. The one that makes her lose her mind.
“Oh. God,” she pants into the room.
It’s the sound of victory. The lighter caught flame.
And I stop all movement instantly.
I stand to full height as she stares at me—shoulders sagged against the wall, eyes wildly sexy, cheeks flushed, chest heaving—and smirk. Then casually glance down to my watch before focusing on tucking my rock-hard dick back into my slacks and zipping over it. Carefully.
“You bastard,” she whispers—equal parts amusement, frustration, and disbelief.
And fuck if I don’t feel the same way when I look up at her. I work my tongue in my cheek as we stare at each other. My need for her so strong it fucking hurts. And then with a nod of my head, I walk out, and shut the door behind me without ever saying a word.
I’ve only walked away from Saylor two times before. The first time was brutal because I never came back. This second time is just as brutal, but at least I know I’m coming back.
