Gravity (Wilde Boys Book 1)

by Sara Cate

  His lips move hungrily down my chin to my neck. “Nash,” I gasp. “We have to go to dinner.”

  “Do we?” he asks, his lips trailing to my neckline and very close to the point of no return. If his lips touch my breasts, I’m done for.

  “We had a deal,” I say, forcing the words out through a moan as his teeth take a small nibble on my collarbone.

  Just then, I spot a figure in the doorway. I nearly scream when I realize Alistair is watching us, and I push Nash away with all of my strength.

  “Dinner is ready,” his father says in a flat tone.

  Nash freezes, his warm breath still on the skin of my neck.

  “We’ll be right there,” I answer, shoving Nash off of me. This time he actually moves, rolling to the side as I pop up. Next time I look up toward the doorway, Alistair is gone.

  Nash has a mischievous smile, and I slap him playfully on the shoulder.

  “A deal’s a deal,” he says as he stands, adjusting his pants right in front of me. It’s not like I’m not used to men dealing with erections in my presence, but the way Nash does it, with his intense expression directed at me, I have to swallow down my nerves. This is going to be a very interesting three months.

  6

  There’s a hollow, gaping hole in my chest. It’s always there, but it ebbs and flows like the tide. Sometimes it’s dull, and sometimes, it is crippling. I’ve learned there are things that trigger the pain. Nash’s change in behavior being one of those things. The gaping hole turns into a festering, infected wound that throbs and won’t let me focus on anything else.

  Zara’s lips are still red and swollen as she and Nash sit down at the dinner table, but at least my son is in the same room as me. That’s a start. There is a gentle tremor in her hands, and I realize I should feel bad. She is the sacrificial lamb I’m hoping will please the angry God sitting next to her.

  Nash always took after me, keeping his focus on work and business. Women are distractions, the worst kind, and normally, I wouldn’t be hiring one to interfere, but now I’m hoping this one will be able to pull him out of this slump.

  As he scoops up a bite of steaming red pasta on his fork, I get a momentary flash of deja vu, remembering the gentle-mannered little kid who thought I set the sun in the sky every morning. Once upon a time, he showered me with attention. I was ready to hand him the keys to this kingdom I’ve built.

  But now he wants to embody his dead brother, spending his life and our money partying and hating me. Like Preston, Nash has developed a ravenous appetite for self-destruction. My son is lost—but with Zara around, I already notice a new spark in his behavior. Maybe it’s the challenge, or fuck, maybe it’s the sex. I don’t give a shit if it is, as long as it makes him want to be Nash again.

  The dining room is awkwardly quiet as we eat, and every few moments I notice Zara look up at me. I know I intimidate her, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  When she used to visit with Emma, the two hardly seemed identical. Even with the same blonde hair, her sister used to shine brighter. But Zara was different. She is the stronger, bolder of the two, and now that she has that black hair, it fits her even better. It’s like she’s growing into a fierce version of herself.

  “The west side of the island has a beautiful view of the sunset. Nash can take you to see it,” I say, breaking the silence.

  My son doesn’t respond as he continues eating like he didn’t hear me. Zara glances back and forth between us. Her and I stare at each other a moment. Then, she turns to Nash and touches his arm.

  “I want to see it.” It’s not a request or a question. She’s demanding it, and I almost want to laugh. Nash does not indulge anyone. The moment he thinks you want something he will deny it. He gets that stubborn tenacity from me.

  The table grows silent for a moment before he looks at me, then her. With a fake smile plastered on his face, he says, “Then we’ll go see it.”

  I know it’s to spite me, and that’s fine. If Nash lives the rest of his life to spite me, then at least I can use that to my advantage. I’ll get his life back on fucking track. I may never get my son back, but this is better than losing him like I lost Preston.

  7

  Nash is tense. Ever since dinner, I can’t get him to relax and be the same playful version of himself that pinned me to the bed and nearly kissed the life out of me. Menacing—yet playful. We have to drive to the other side of the island, and it’s a part I’ve never seen before. Granted, it’s not a big island, but it is beautiful.

  The roads are paved but not well, so we are bouncing around in his Jeep as he takes the turns too fast. I would feel nervous if I wasn’t already so afraid of being alone with him so far from anyone else. What if that cruel, harsh Nash from the night at my apartment comes back? What if I want him to stop and he doesn’t?

  What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

  “You didn’t have to bring me if you were going so grumpy about it.”

  “I’m not grumpy,” he replies. His hard stare, eyebrows pinched tightly, is focused on the road, but I know there are a lot of things going on behind those eyes. I know giving in to his dad’s orders was hard and right now he’s probably beating himself up for it. Sure, Alistair phrased it like a suggestion, but everyone at the table knew it wasn’t.

  When we pull up to a sandy dune where the road dead ends, I can see what Alistair was talking about. With the sun resting heavily on the horizon, the entire sky has turned a bright orange and pink, reflecting on the crystal clear water.

  I’m not one to let Nash’s grumpy mood bother me, so when he puts the car into park, I hop out and walk toward the dunes. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I sit on the top of the hill and watch as night drapes the sky with darkness. Nash joins me after a moment, relaxing on his elbows as he stares out toward the water.

  “Do you ever get used to living on a private island?” I ask. It’s not like Nash and I ever really had a chance to have deep conversations while I was here with Emma.

  “What’s to get used to? No nosey neighbors, no traffic, no noise. Just ocean and sky.”

  “How long have you lived out here?”

  “Our whole lives,” he answers like it’s the most obvious answer.

  “You and I had very different childhoods,” I reply, picking at the blades of long grass sticking out of the sand.

  “You think we’re out of touch, don’t you?” There’s a deep crease in his forehead as he scrutinizes me.

  “No, I don’t think that.” When I glance up at him, I see something deep in his expression. Something familiar. “Emma and I grew up in the city, but our mom died just before we graduated. It was just us then, and that house felt like an island.”

  I’m not quite sure why I’m telling him this. It’s a stupid thing to do, really.

  Nash has no interest in connecting with me. Probably just the opposite, and the more I let down my guard with him, the more I’m setting myself up to be hurt by him. But I can’t help it. Fuck, maybe it’s because it’s been months since I actually spoke to someone from the heart about anything at all.

  We break our gaze and turn toward the water, sitting in silence for a few minutes before he finally asks, “So how the hell did you end up at a strip club?”

  He’s judging me, and I hate it. I refuse to feel like less than because I make my money the way I do. “A job’s a job, Nash.”

  “Hey, I’m not judging.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “It was just surprising is all. I didn’t ever expect that for you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, glaring at him.

  With his squinted stare focused on the water, he takes a few moments before he answers. “I never thought you were the kind of girl who cared about money.”

  “Yeah, well...things change.”

  “I can see that.” I notice his enigmatic blue eyes on me as he takes in my face and hair. Then, they drift down to my body. I know how much I’ve changed since I was
out here last. I was more reserved then, never the center of attention. Now, I treat my body like it’s something for everyone. As if I’ve stepped out of my own skin. Life became too heavy, and it became easier to check out and leave what’s left of me for the wolves.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask, and I’m afraid of the answer.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Well if it’s something dirty, forget about it. I’m not sleeping with you again, Nash.”

  “Isn’t that what my dad is paying you to do?” My head snaps toward him, and I fight the urge to hit him. Instead, I jump to my legs and walk away.

  “You’re an asshole, Nash.”

  I don’t get far before there’s a hand around my waist and I come crashing back into him. His lips are next to my ear as he pins my body against his.

  “Then why are you here? Why would he send you, huh? I have plenty of friends, lots of women who would kill for your place right now.”

  With an elbow to his gut, I break his hold and stomp away toward the Jeep. “Fuck off.”

  My blood is boiling, but it’s not just from rage. It’s the fire that burns between us, this constant energy that feels a little too much like hate to be healthy. His words hurt, but they don’t create new wounds. It’s more like picking the scabs off old ones.

  A moment ago we were having a civilized conversation, but that’s not us. This is us, this charged back and forth, give and take. Passion laced with anger, hatred, lust.

  This time when I run away, I anticipate him catching me. I crave it. So when he snatches me by the waist again and presses me face first against the hood of the car, I’m fighting him because it’s the only thing that stokes the flames in my belly. I let out a cry that’s laced with pain and desire.

  He feels it too, and honestly I’ve never felt so in sync with anyone. I feared him because he wanted me to. I push him, and he pushes back. When I told him no sex it was because I wanted him to have to fight for it, and that’s the most fucked up thought that has ever resided in my head.

  “You think I’m interested in being friends with you, Zara? You think I would ever give him the satisfaction of letting him think his plan worked? Fuck no, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have our fun in the meantime.”

  He doesn’t bother pulling my loose fitting shorts down but yanks them to the side, running his fingers against my sex roughly. I let out a hoarse gasp as he plunges his fingers in. My body won’t stop moving, shifting, shaking from adrenaline as I try to both find the pleasure and escape it at the same time. I hate myself for how much I want to come right now.

  “Nash,” I cry. “I meant what I said. I’m not letting you fuck me again.”

  “Do you want me to stop?” he growls against my ear just as he adds another finger, hooking them at the right angle. My hips are pressed so firmly against the car, it hurts. But the pinching pain only adds to the sensation.

  A throaty moan comes out of me as he rubs furious circles around my clit, and I’m practically levitating. “Don’t stop.”

  “Admit it,” he says with a snarl, pressing me even harder against the hood. “Admit you’re my whore.”

  “No.” Fuck, my heart beats faster, my stomach clenches, and I nearly lose my breath.

  “I feel that pussy pulse in my hands. How much is Daddy paying you to be my whore, huh?”

  Every second I think I’m about to take flight, he pulls away, and I know he’s doing it on purpose. This is a mind game to him, another form of torture because that’s all Nash knows how to be with people now.

  “If you want to come, you have to say it, Zara. Say you’re my whore. Admit you’re just as fucked up as me. You like it when I treat you like shit as much I like being the piece of shit who does it. We’re both fucked up, Zara, so admit it and I’ll let you come all over my hand, then we can go home.”

  With his hand still buried deep in my panties, two digits pumping in and out, spreading my arousal all over me, I desperately don’t want him to take his hand away. And I know what he’s saying is right. I never knew Nash was so perceptive, so in tune to everything going on around him. And right now, he has me where he wants me. For the next three months, it’s going to be like this. An unbalanced power dynamic between us where we both get off on being the pieces of shit we are.

  Suddenly, I realize just how alike Nash and I are. We both lived in their shadows, and all the feelings of guilt for surviving I’ve been feeling the last two years must be the same thing Nash has been living with.

  But how can I help him if this is how we get by? How will I ever deliver on getting him out of his funk if I let him continue to be the worst version of himself? Maybe he’ll get it out of his system.

  That’s the lie I tell myself and I lean helplessly over the front of the car and give him everything he wants. “Yes, Nash. I’m your whore. Now, please—”

  His fingers press with so much intensity over my clit I lose my breath. My orgasm hits me hard and fast, and he rides me through the whole thing, never easing up on the pressure or the motion until my body relaxes.

  We don’t move for a moment as he keeps my body pinned in place, but shame washes over me as my body returns to normal. Even being a stripper for two years never made me feel as fucked up as I feel right now.

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t have anymore,” he says as he pulls his wet digits out of my panties. As he walks toward the driver’s side, he stares at me with a vicious scowl as he licks my arousal off his fingers, and my stomach turns.

  I deserve this. Emma would have never gotten off on a relationship like this, but she was different than me—better than me. She didn’t know the crippling experience of self-doubt and hatred that I do. I don’t hate myself for wanting Nash to force me, own me, hurt me. Maybe I should, but I don’t.

  I climb in next to him, and he doesn’t say a word as he starts up the Jeep. The whole time I can’t stop thinking about why Alistair hired me for this. Did he know this is how it would be? Was Nash right and Alistair hired me to be his fuck doll, his whore, someone to take his sick pleasures out on?

  And why does this thought hurt more than the others?

  8

  Nash has barely come out of his room for three days straight. I lay awake every night, expecting him to crawl into my bed, prowling through my room like a predator. When I fall asleep, I dream he is already inside me—in my head, in my body—but I wake up alone.

  We haven’t touched since that day at the dunes. It feels like a let down after accepting what our relationship truly is to suddenly not see each other. In fact, I’ve hardly seen anyone all week. I help Astrid with dinner some days and enjoy long jogs around the island. Alistair texted me to let me know his driver could take me back to the mainland for anything I needed, but I haven’t had the desire to go back.

  Being at Del Rey feels like living in a dream. It’s not real life out here, and aside from the hours of reality TV I’ve been bingeing, it feels like I don’t exist in the real world anymore. I like it this way.

  So when a boat full of Nash’s friends ambush the house over the weekend, I feel ambushed too. He won’t talk to me, but he’s prancing around the pool like Mr. Social, flirting with every girl who shows up.

  I stepped outside for a few minutes this morning, but no one showed much interest in me, especially Nash, so I escaped, feeling betrayed and rejected. How could we share so much chemistry just three days ago, but now he acts like I mean nothing to him?

  “Come outside with me.” His drawling voice catches me off guard while I’m watching TV in the living room of the main house. The music is too loud in my room so this is the only place I can find solace.

  It would appear drunk Nash has a little more interest in me than sober Nash.

  “No thanks.”

  I expect him to pick a fight, but he doesn’t. Looking up at him, I see his expression darken like he’s offended, and I don’t bother with an apology.

  “Go hang out with your frien
ds, Nash.”

  After a long moment of silence filled only with his heavy breathing and the Real Housewives of somewhere arguing on TV, I glance back up at him and feel the disappointment of his expression.

  Then he turns away and stomps away back out to his pool house. When I return my attention to the show, I can't focus with this new sinking feeling of guilt in my chest. He wanted to hang out with me, and he probably didn’t want me to refer to someone else as his friends, but Nash has already blurred the lines between us. I’m his whore, not his friend—according to him.

  For a moment, I consider following him, but I’m not quite sure what to expect out of this version of Nash. It couldn’t possibly be the same as the Nash I get when we’re alone, and if it is, I’m not sure I want to be treated like a whore in front of other people.

  The music started blaring just after noon, so when the clock strikes eight p.m., I feel unhinged. I have no doubts this will turn into a full-blown orgy at some point, and I’m really not interested in partaking or witnessing it.

  Feeling too restless to watch this mundane, meaningless show, I peel myself off the couch and start exploring the house. I wouldn’t say I miss my job at the club, but I do kind of miss having something to get me out of bed each day and putting on makeup and cute clothes. For now, I spend most days in my bikini and something to cover it like a simple sundress, which is what I’m in now.

  Padding silently down the hallway, I take a peek around the corner that leads to Alistair’s office and bedroom. It’s silent, and as far as I know he’s on the mainland today. At least I assume he is. I haven’t seen him, and if I don’t hear his plane landing before nightfall, he normally doesn’t return until the next day.

  So, I decide to do something really reckless. I walk down the forbidden hallway, wanting to see the king’s quarters more than ever. Without him here, it gives me the illusion of power. There’s a good chance there are cameras around here, but right now, I don’t care. I hope he catches me snooping around his shit.