Titan’s Addiction: Wall Street Titan: Book 2

by Zaires, Anna

  No, it’s best if I tell them about the breakup once I’m back in New York. They’ll still be upset, but it’ll be easier to pretend I’m fine over Skype. Right now, my emotions are too tangled, too raw, especially with Marcus showing up like this. I don’t understand why he’s here, why he’s trying to make it sound like we could have a future when it’s beyond obvious that—

  “You two lovebirds resolve everything?” Gramps asks, getting up from the couch as we enter the living room, and before I can respond, Marcus nods and smiles broadly.

  “We did, thank you. Emma was just upset that I spilled the beans to Mary. She wanted to be the one to tell you both that we’re moving in together.”

  I see red. I literally do.

  At first, I’m afraid the blood vessels in my eyes have popped from the explosion of fury blasting through me, but then I realize some of my hair has fallen into my face. Pushing it out of my eyes, I open my mouth to rip into Marcus—there’s only so much pretending I’m willing to do—when Grandma lets out a girlish squeal and rushes forward.

  “Oh, this is so exciting,” she gushes, enveloping us both in a perfumed hug. Stepping back, she turns to beam at Gramps. “Isn’t it just the best news ever, Ted?”

  “Indeed,” Gramps says as Marcus sneezes for some reason. “We’re so glad Emma will finally be out of that basement studio. Mary told me she’ll be moving into your place, right?”

  “That’s right,” Marcus says as I try to find the right words to refute this madness. “My apartment has plenty of room for Emma and her cats.”

  “What about your work?” Gramps asks me. “Your bookstore is in Brooklyn, so how will you get there if you live in Manhattan?”

  “Oh, I’ve already asked that,” Grandma answers before I can get a word in. “Marcus’s private driver”—she grins at that—“will take her to the bookstore and bring her back every day. And since the apartment is in Tribeca, just a few blocks from the tunnel, the drive won’t take that much longer than her current commute—you know, what with walking to the subway, waiting for the train, and all.”

  They’ve discussed the logistics of my commute?

  I’m speechless with rage. Literally speechless.

  “Indeed,” Marcus says as I struggle with my paralyzed vocal cords. “It’ll be so much safer for her, too. You know the state of those trains these days. Besides, this winter is forecasted to be colder than usual, and she’ll be snug and warm in the car.” Gazing down at me with a tender expression, he presses me to his side and drops a kiss on the crown of my head.

  Grandma looks like she’s about to melt into a puddle of joy, and even Gramps sniffles, as if he’s on the verge of happy tears.

  The scathing retort I was about to unleash dies on my lips. Because what kind of an asshole would I be if I spoiled this for them? For as long as I can remember, my grandparents have fretted over me, first worrying that my sociopathic mother—their daughter—was neglecting me, then that my childhood with her had left lasting scars on my psyche. Mixed with that worry is deep-seated guilt that their daughter turned out the way she did, along with regret that they didn’t sue for custody of me when I was little.

  “I kept thinking she’d turn around and change her ways, that she’d realize how damaging her behavior was to you, her child,” Grandma confided in me tearfully after my mother died and I, being a dumb eleven-year-old, told them what it had been like to live with her. “But she never did, did she? We should’ve taken you away from her years ago, and to hell with lawyer fees and courts favoring the mother.”

  Gramps feels the same way—which is why, after I graduated from college, it took every persuasion tactic in my arsenal to convince the two of them to finally retire and move to Florida. They’d been beyond reluctant to leave me alone in Brooklyn, but I knew that year-round sunshine and beachside living was their lifelong dream, and I stood firm, claiming that I was an adult and needed my independence.

  And so they gave me that—only to continue worrying about me. Though they’d lived in New York for decades, everything about the city scares them now, from the crowds to the winters to the way it’s a constant target for terrorists. And the fact that I’m living there completely on my own makes it infinitely worse, as they keep picturing me getting sick or hurt and having no one around to look after me.

  Which is why it’s so appealing to them, what Marcus is promising right now. Safety, warmth, love, and support—he’s homed in on the exact things my grandparents want for me. And by doing so, he’s backed me into a corner.

  I can’t deny them this joy, even if it only lasts for a short while.

  So instead of blasting Marcus with the full force of my outrage, I unobtrusively step out of his embrace and say, “It’s getting late. Let’s talk more about it tomorrow.” After I’ve had a chance to yell at the lying, manipulative jerk in private.

  “Of course.” Grandma beams. “Come, I’ve prepped the guestroom for you two.”

  Wait a sec. Guestroom, as in one room? This being Florida, my grandparents have two spare bedrooms, one of which doubles as Gramps’ lounge/office—and I’d assumed they’d put Marcus in one of them and me in the other, as befits propriety. But that’s not what seems to be happening.

  A sinking feeling invading my stomach, I follow Grandma out of the living room, with Marcus on my heels.

  “Here we are,” she says, throwing open a door to reveal a cozy, softly lit room with a neatly made queen-sized bed and an attached bathroom. “All nice and ready for you two.”

  Oh God. Shoot me now.

  I’ve never had a boyfriend sleep over at my grandparents’ place before, as the last time I was seriously dating someone—my college boyfriend, Jim—they still lived in Brooklyn, in a converted two-bedroom that I shared with them. It was barely larger than my current studio and the walls were super thin, so Jim and I would go to his parents’ house in Long Island to hang out.

  Which is to say that I don’t have any precedent to compare this to. Still, logic would dictate that most grandparents—even liberal ones, like mine—wouldn’t encourage their granddaughter to engage in premarital sex under their own roof.

  Of course, my grandparents have never been like most, but is a little prudishness too much to ask for?

  I really, really don’t want to share a bed with Marcus.

  Or rather, after those brain-melting kisses outside, I want it way too much.

  “Thank you, Mary. It looks lovely. We really appreciate your hospitality,” Marcus says—again taking the lead before I can figure out how to deal with this development. And why is he on a first-name basis with my grandmother?

  Did they get all buddy-buddy while waiting for Gramps and me to arrive?

  Stepping around me, he walks into the room, my suitcase in one hand and a duffel bag that must be his luggage in the other. He probably grabbed them from the living room when I wasn’t looking—except how does he even have luggage in the first place? To get here so quickly, he had to have jumped on a plane right after I left.

  Does he keep an overnight bag on his private jet in case he wants to chase some woman on a moment’s notice?

  Wait, why am I worrying about his luggage when we’re about to be forced into sharing a bed? This is not a viable sleeping arrangement. At all. Given Marcus’s intense sex drive and the fact that I go up in flames if he so much as breathes on me, it’s pretty much a given that as soon as that door closes, we’re going to be horizontal—and for the sake of my sanity, that can’t happen. I definitely need to ask Grandma for separate rooms. Only how do I do that without fessing up to the whole deception? She and Gramps have seen me in a robe at his place, so I can’t exactly pretend our relationship hasn’t progressed that far.

  As I’m wrestling with this dilemma, Marcus sets down both bags and begins to unpack my suitcase, taking out my clothes and setting them in neat piles on the bed with the calm self-assurance of a man who has every right to handle my things. At any other time, my jaw would be on the fl
oor, but after everything that has gone down tonight, his temerity barely fazes me.

  What does bother me is that my grandmother beams brighter at this arrogant display. To her, it must look like we’re already perfectly comfortable with each other, kind of like an old married couple. She probably thinks Marcus is being helpful by unpacking for me, instead of seeing his actions for what they are: a ruthless takeover of my life. I can just see her telling Gramps all about what a nice man Marcus is, so domesticated and caring and organized.

  At this very moment, he’s hanging my T-shirts. Actually hanging them in the guestroom closet. Oh, and ordering them by color, light to dark, like a serial killer.

  He must be the one with OCD, not his butler.

  “Goodnight, sweetheart. Goodnight, Marcus,” Grandma says before I can come up with a solution to the bed problem. “Sleep well.”

  With a quick hug, she hurries away, and then there’s no choice left.

  Feeling like I’m entering a dragon’s lair, I ball my fists and step into the guestroom.

  5

  Emma

  Marcus hangs up my last T-shirt—I only brought four, one for each day of the trip—and turns around to face me. His expression is impassive, but there’s no hiding the savage heat in his piercing blue eyes as they rake over me from head to toe. I swallow as my body reacts in an instant, my heartbeat speeding up and my nipples tightening in the confines of my bra. My panties are still damp from making out outside, and that look is all it takes for arousal to flood my core.

  This is going to be even harder than I thought. Literally, because I can see the growing bulge in his jeans. A big, thick bulge that—

  Ugh, stop it, Emma. Yanking my mind out of the X-rated gutter, I call forth every ounce of my fury and advance into the room. “You broke your promise. You said you’d keep your mouth shut and—”

  “I never said that.” His eyes narrow. “I said I ‘got it’—as in, I understood what you wanted me to do. I never promised to do it, though.”

  My molars clench so hard I’ll have a toothache tomorrow. “Stop splitting hairs. You knew what I thought, and you played me. I told you what you had to do to stay, and you did the exact opposite. You lied to my grandparents—”

  “Did I?” He folds his arms across his chest, causing his shirt to outline the impressively defined muscles underneath. “What did I say that was untruthful?”

  “You said I’m moving in with you!” I almost shout the words, but at the last moment, I remember where we are and lower my voice to a whisper-hiss. “That is a complete lie, and you—”

  “Oh, but you are. You just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.”

  I stare at him, taken aback by the unshakeable certainty in his voice. Is he delusional, or just that used to getting his way? Has no woman ever told him no?

  Wait a minute.

  Is that why he’s here?

  Because I rejected him and became a challenge once again?

  I wondered about that when he disappeared earlier this week—whether that’s what my appeal to him had been all along. I doubt many women have sent him away in recent years, but that’s exactly what I did the night he broke down the door in my apartment. Of course, less than two weeks later, I caved and we had that amazing weekend together.

  A weekend during which I ceased to be a challenge.

  Is that it? Is that what all of this is about?

  I told him no once again?

  If so, he didn’t lie about wanting me instead of Emmeline. He does want me, and he will until I give in—at which point he’ll lose interest, like he did this weekend.

  And this time, he might disappear for good.

  My anger fades, replaced by a squeezing ache in my chest, and I turn away, my eyes stinging anew.

  I can’t do this. Not even for my grandparents.

  I have to put a stop to this charade.

  Steeling myself, I step toward the door—only to stop when big, warm hands land on my shoulders.

  Gently, he pulls me toward him, molding my back against the hard planes of his body. “Come to bed, kitten,” he murmurs in my ear, his deep, velvety voice caressing me like a touch. “It’s late, and we’ve both had a long day. We’ll sort it all out tomorrow, I promise.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep the stinging tears in. My treacherous heart is beating much too fast at his nearness, my body turning boneless and languid. His masculine scent surrounds me, a familiar mixture of pine and fresh breeze, and his erection is thick and hard against my lower back.

  He wants me.

  He definitely wants me.

  And God help me, I want him too.

  “Emma.” His voice lowers another octave. “Look at me.”

  He could turn me around easily, but he doesn’t. His powerful hands rest on my shoulders, unmoving, and I know he’s leaving it up to me.

  Look or don’t look.

  Stay or go.

  I can walk out of this room, tell my grandparents the truth, and end this insanity right now.

  I can salvage what remains of my heart.

  Except… he did come all the way here. Would a man do that just because a woman he was losing interest in decided not to see him? Private plane or not, it’s a two-plus-hour flight and time out of his busy schedule. Even chasing me down at the airport seems like a lot of effort if I’m nothing more than an amusing challenge.

  Is it possible?

  Could he have truly meant some of the things he said?

  Does he want me to move in out of something more than logistical considerations?

  My feet seem to reach a decision before my brain does, and I turn around, tipping my head back to meet his gaze.

  For a second, we just stare at each other, our bodies so close we’re nearly touching. His hands are still on top of my shoulders, the heat from his palms seeping into me, warming me down to my toes. I can see the primal hunger in his eyes, but underneath, there’s something softer, gentler.

  Something that makes my chest ache in an entirely different way.

  “Emma.” He tenderly cups my jaw. “Give this—us—another chance.”

  I draw in an unsteady breath, my heart thudding in my ribcage.

  A chance.

  He’s asking for a chance.

  Another chance for him to hurt me.

  Or maybe, just maybe, to find out if this could be real.

  “I’m still not…” I lick my dry lips. “This doesn’t mean I’m moving in with you.”

  Something hot and dark blazes in the cool depths of his eyes before he veils the expression. “Understood,” he says roughly, and before I can clarify what he means, he dips his head and covers my lips with his.

  My mouth opens on a startled gasp, and his tongue invades with unapologetic fierceness as he maneuvers us toward the bed, yanking off our clothes on the way. Gone is the tender man who would’ve let me walk out of the room, and I realize he was never there in the first place. It was always this ruthless conqueror, a savage determined to consume me.

  The real Marcus Carelli.

  As our clothes hit the floor, his hands skate over my curves with possessive greed, his palms hot and rough on my bare skin, and I respond with the same dark fervor, my hurt and anger transforming into blinding lust. It feels like mere seconds before we end up fully naked on the bed, with him on top of me and my wrists pinned to the bed next to my shoulders as he devours my mouth, swallowing my panting breaths. His large, hard-muscled body is warm and heavy over me, his cock smooth and hard against my inner thigh as he wedges his knees between my legs, opening them wide. His mouth moves over to nibble on my earlobe, then trails down my neck, sucking and biting, and I feel like I’m burning, like I might combust from the dizzying need. By the time he reaches my breasts, my entire body is covered with delicious goosebumps, and I’m so turned on I feel the slickness on my thighs.

  “Please,” I moan as his hot, wet mouth clamps over my peaked nipple, sucking on it with a strong pull. “Pleas
e, oh please, Marcus, just… Oh God, yes, right there.” My eyes squeeze shut, my hips lifting off the bed as he releases my wrists and moves one hand down to my aching clit, manipulating it with unerring skill. Freed, my hands fall to my sides, only to spasmodically fist the blanket as the tension inside me coils unbearably, the pleasure spiking in a dark crescendo.

  I’m almost there, almost at the peak, when the fingers withdraw and his lips return to mine, stifling my moans. Kissing me deeply, he guides his cock to my entrance and slowly, ever so slowly, presses in.

  He’s big—God, I almost forgot how big he is—and despite the abundant slickness, there’s an almost painful stretch as he sinks into me, penetrating me with exquisite gentleness. My hands fly up to grip his sides, my muscles tensing as the stretch threatens to turn into a burn. I can feel every thick inch of him, and my body quivers with the effort to accept him. At the same time, his kisses are driving me wild, his tongue tangling with mine with a sensual ferocity that only emphasizes the care he’s taking by entering me so slowly.

  Finally, he’s all the way in, his balls pressing against my bottom, and as he pushes up onto his elbows to gaze down at me, I see that his face is sheened with sweat, his hard jaw tense. “You okay?” he asks raggedly, and I nod, unable to speak. He’s so deep in me I feel as if we’re one, as if something more than our bodies is joined together. With his face mere inches away and his blue eyes locked on mine, the intimacy is almost unbearable.

  This is more than great sex, and the realization terrifies me.

  “Good,” he breathes, and holding my gaze, he begins to move inside me.

  At first, his thrusts are carefully controlled, but as my body adjusts to him, he picks up the pace, going deeper and harder with each stroke. His powerful obliques flex in my grip, and the heated tension coils in me again, my arousal spiraling higher with each stroke. With a cry, I come, shattering around him, but he doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop, and the second orgasm builds before the aftershocks from the first fade. He’s now hammering into me, his gaze ruthlessly intent on my face, and I feel like I can see straight into his soul, right into the merciless core of him.