The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  I drag my eyes back up to her face. Man, her pissed-off face scares me, maybe because she’s usually such a soft, warm person. She’s never been sassy with me like Ruby always is. Jesus, I miss her.

  Amalie steps in close, eyes alight with a fire I’ve never seen before. “Ruby told me all about the message you left her and the one Brittany left for you. What kind of person are you, trying to pay her off. It’s disgusting.”

  “Pay her off? For what?”

  “For the sex.” She says it like I’m the stupidest person on the face of the earth. Because clearly I am.

  “Whoa, whoa. Hold on here. Why the hell would she think I was paying her off?”

  “Because you left her five thousand dollars and a message about how your arrangement changed, you asshole. And all the while you’re setting up dates with whoreface Brittany. Ruby doesn’t just sleep with anyone, you know. She really liked you and then you had to go and do this. And you just up and disappear for a week. What kind of jerkoff are you?”

  Oh shit. Now this is all starting to make sense. “Okay, first things first, I wasn’t trying to pay Ruby for sex. I had no idea how long I was going to be gone and I needed to leave money because I didn’t have time to get supplies for Francesca and Tiny. Secondly, I’ve known Brittany since I was a kid and she’s here because my mother wants me to date her, not because I do. Why wouldn’t Ruby call me before she went and moved all her stuff out? And she’s not working at the club anymore. Please tell me she didn’t go back to Rhode Island.” I hadn’t even considered that possibility until now. It amps up the panic.

  “She moved out because she’s protecting her heart.” She clamps her mouth shut. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. I can’t trust a damn thing you say.”

  Amalie tries to brush past me, but I grab her arm. “I just need her number. I just need to call her to explain. Or you could tell me where she is.”

  “Explain what exactly? That’s you were screwing her and who knows who else while she was living in your place? You didn’t even try to contact her once while you were gone this time. What the hell is she supposed to think?”

  “I’m not screwing anyone else and I don’t have any intention of doing so either. I lost my phone on the plane and I didn’t have my iCloud backed up so I couldn’t contact her. And she’s either not responding to or not getting the messages I sent her on social media. I just want to talk to her, Amalie. I didn’t want her to leave. I want her. I want to be with her. I fucking miss her.”

  Amalie eyes go wide and maybe a little shocked at my language. “Oh, well, that explains the lack of messages, but this whole Brittany thing—”

  “I’m not an asshole, Amalie. I’ve never had any intention of dating Brittany. I think she might actually be delusional. Just tell me where Ruby is, please, so I can try to fix this.”

  Amalie regards me for a few long moments before she retrieves her phone from her handbag. “She’s staying at my place. She had a successful audition last week. It’s a really great role. She’s moving into her own apartment next week.”

  “She found her own place already?”

  “It was a fluke really. A sublet.”

  My phone pings in my pocket. I pull it out and add the contact to my short, but growing list. “Can I get directions to your apartment?” My phone pings again.

  “I can do better than that.” She roots around in her clutch and pulls out a key. “Don’t make me regret giving you this. Now go unbreak my best friend’s heart, please.”

  Chapter 22: Ice Cream Tastes Like Heartbreak

  RUBY

  I’m on my second pint of Ben and Jerry’s. The first one was cookie dough, this one is straight vanilla. Amie’s having dinner at Bancroft’s parent’s house tonight and he’s supposed to be there if he’s back from his trip. She offered to fake being sick and stay here with me in a show of solidarity, but I wanted her to report back. I also want to know if that whoreface Brittany is there with him. I also may have asked her to put a hefty dose of laxative in her food if she is. Amie refused the last part. I still slipped it in her purse in case she changed her mind.

  At seven I get my first message from Amie:

  Whoreface is here. Dressed like a whore. Bancroft is not.

  Forty-five minutes later I get another one:

  Bancroft arrived. Whoreface is whoring all over him. I found the laxatives in my purse. I might slip them into his coffee.

  The ice cream suddenly isn’t sitting well. I wait to hear back from her again, but after half an hour I cave and send her one:

  Is she his date?

  It takes a few minutes for her to reply.

  I think so. ☹

  I can’t believe less than a week ago we were having sex on every damn surface in his condo. I should’ve stuck to my seven-date rule. Living at his place ruined everything.

  My phone pings again. It’s Amie again.

  We were wrong.

  When I send one back asking for clarification and get nothing in response I frantically type fifty new one-word messages, hoping the constant string of texts will prompt her to reply in order to shut me up. She replies:

  About Bancroft. You’ll understand soon.

  As if that’s helpful. It’s just as cryptic. The rest of my messages go unanswered. I think I’m on the verge of a panic attack when there’s a knock on the door, followed by the sound of the key turning in the lock. It’s not even ten. I’m surprised dinner is over already. Rich-people dinner parties usually last until midnight, with the business component of the evening taking place after food and drink has been consumed. Which seems rather backward to me. Maybe Amie left early to be with me. Maybe she has news. My stomach flips and I reclaim my ice cream in preparation for food solace.

  Except it’s not Amie who walks through the door of the apartment. It’s Bancroft.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I bark.

  Bancroft looks me over. I resist the urge to rush to the bathroom and make myself more presentable. I’m pretty sure I look awful. My hair is pulled into a haphazard ponytail and I’m wearing my comfy pajamas. And no bra.

  He crosses the room, looking intense. And hot. Damn him.

  “We need to talk.”

  I clutch the couch cushion so I don’t launch an attack. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I’m going to disagree. I think there’s actually a lot to talk about.”

  “What would you like to start with? Your date with Brittany the slutface? How excited she is to pick up where you left off? Were you playing us both the entire time?”

  He holds up his hands. “I wasn’t playing anyone.”

  “Oh no? How many times did she call while you were in London? Did you ask her to get naked on video chat? Did you talk to her about her panties?”

  “I don’t actually think she owns panties,” he grumbles.

  My mouth drops open and I hurl the closest throwable thing at him, which just happens to be a pillow, so unfortunately it does no damage. “How classless are you that you’d fuck her while I’m living in your goddamn condo?”

  “Whoa. Hold on, you’re misunderstanding.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve never had sex with Brittany. I’ve never even kissed her.”

  As if this makes me feel any better. “How the hell do you know she doesn’t own panties then?”

  “Because she flashed me the last time I took her out.”

  “Why should I even believe you?” I push up off the couch so I can prop a fist on my hip. It would be so much more effective if I didn’t look so pathetic. “Besides, what does any of this matter since we need to make ‘adjustments to our arrangement’? And maybe we need to talk about the money you left for services rendered.”

  Bancroft shakes his head. “Services rendered? I don’t even kn—”

  “I must be in the wrong business if my pussy is worth five grand a week.” I motion to my crotch.

  Bancroft looks so confused right now.

&nbs
p; “What am I supposed to think when you leave an envelope of cash to compensate me for sex? Do you have any idea how degrading that is? You can’t buy me, Bane.” Oh shit. I think I’m going to cry.

  His expression turns remote and he crosses his arms over his chest. “You honestly think I’d pay you for having sex with me?”

  “Well what the hell else was it for? Just in case I end up with lockjaw down the line from trying to deep throat your cock?” Okay, that might be taking it a little too far.

  “I was worried I might be gone longer than I hoped. I didn’t want to leave you without money. I’m not trying to buy you, Ruby. I’m trying to take care of you.”

  “I don’t need to be taken care of. And you said we needed to make adjustments, that it was all too fast. And the first thing you do when you get back is go out with Brittany!” I’m incredibly flaily right now. If I was sitting down I could shove my hands under my thighs to keep them still.

  “Fuck. This is why I hate voice mail.” Bancroft rubs the space between his eyes as if this conversation is giving him a headache. “I didn’t set up a date with Brittany. This was my mother’s attempt at matchmaking again. I have no interest in dating Brittany. The only reason I went to dinner at all tonight was so I could find out where you were from Amalie. When I said things were moving faster than I expected it wasn’t supposed to be a bad thing. I was flustered at being sent to London again.”

  “Oh.” This is a lot different than what I expected. “But you didn’t call me once while you were gone.”

  “I left my phone on the plane and I hadn’t backed up my iCloud so I didn’t have your number anymore. I messaged you on social media hoping you would respond, but I got nothing back. Do you have any idea how confused I was when I came home to find you’d moved out?”

  I suppose deleting the private messages he sent without reading them was a bit hasty on my part. He must read the guilt in my expression. Based on his loud sigh.

  “I knew we needed to talk about things, and I probably should’ve said something long before I did, but then I had to go back to London and I had no choice but to wait. I honestly didn’t intend to get you naked so soon after I came back, but then the club happened and I didn’t have the restraint necessary to wait.”

  I raise my hand to stop him. “You planned to sleep with me?”

  He takes a step closer until my open palm rests against his chest. “Planned sounds devious and calculated.”

  I don’t move away, but I lift my chin so I can see his face. “Were you being devious and calculated?”

  Bancroft shrugs. “It was a good thing I was out of the country at the beginning. That first night you stayed in my condo, before I left, I had a very difficult time not making a bad decision that would have felt, very, very good. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear in my intentions and that it took this long for me to express them. I would like to be forgiven. Do you think that’s possible?”

  I nod. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you the benefit of the doubt, but the messages and the money . . .” I swallow hard as he covers my hand with his. It’s difficult not to get caught up in the feel of him so close to me. “I’m actually glad we didn’t make bad decisions before you left.”

  He cocks his head, his gaze questioning.

  “If I’d slept with you before you left it would’ve complicated things. I would’ve felt as if I were being bought.”

  He picks up my hand, bringing my fingers to his lips. “Which is how I made you feel when I left last week.”

  “I’ve been dependent on my father’s support for a lot of years. His money always came with a price, and I didn’t want that to happen again. Even without the misunderstanding I would’ve had to move out.”

  “But I like having you with me.” The fingers of his free hand trail down the side of my neck. It’s rather distracting.

  “I can’t, Bane. Because it’s yours. Because I need to stand on my own first. I can’t live with you if we’re dating.”

  “You already were.”

  “It was different when I was your pet sitter turned roommate. Everything changes with sex and a label.”

  “You can at least come back to the condo until your new place is ready.”

  “It’s ready next week and all my things are here.”

  Bancroft’s face falls.

  “We can have sleepovers. I can stay at your place a few nights this week and when I have my place you can stay with me.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No. But I need time to be responsible for my own well-being. I’d like to attempt to be successful at it before I merge my life with someone else’s. Let’s give ourselves some time to date like regular people do.”

  “I guess we can do that. If we have to.” He’s pretty much pouting.

  I laugh. “I think it would be a bit more logical than me moving back in with you.”

  “How long do you have the apartment? Not a year?” The furrow is back.

  “Only two months.”

  “How much is it costing you?”

  “It’s affordable.”

  His fingers trail up and down the back of my arm. “Okay. So in two months you can move back into the condo, and if I have to go away you’ll stay and take care of Francesca and Tiny? And we can have a minimum of three sleepovers a week while we’re doing this dating thing.”

  “You sound like you’re negotiating a business arrangement.”

  “I’m negotiating your girlfriend status and regular sex.” Now his hand is on my waist, moving around to my lower back.

  “Regular, mind-blowing sex,” I correct.

  “It really is that fucking amazing, isn’t it?” His palm curves around my right butt cheek.

  “It is,” I breathe.

  “We should do it again. Right now. Especially since we’re dating and all.”

  “I think that’s a great idea.”

  It takes all of a half a second before Bancroft’s mouth is on mine. The kiss is explosive. I fight to unbutton his suit jacket and loosen his tie while his tongue strokes my mouth.

  Getting me naked is a matter of pulling my tank over my head and yanking my shorts down my legs. Bancroft runs his hands from my ankles, up the outside of my legs all the way to my ribs, then cups my breasts and goes in for another kiss.

  “You don’t think Amalie will come back here tonight?” he asks.

  “Not likely. It’s the weekend—she’ll stay at Armstrong’s tonight, especially if she knows you’re here.”

  “Excellent. That’s what I hoped.”

  I continue popping buttons as I lead Bancroft to the bedroom. I hesitate for a second when I push open the door. It’s not my bed. The sheets are fresh, though. I changed them this morning.

  “Maybe we should have sex on the floor.” I unclasp the buckle on his belt.

  “You don’t think her bed can handle me fucking you?” And there it is, that dirty mouth I’ve been missing.

  “I don’t really know.” It’s a metal frame, all pretty and delicate. Bancroft’s bed is made of solid wood. It’s reinforced like a bunker. He can fuck me straight through the mattress if he wants and the frame will stay firmly intact. I’m not sure Amie’s bed is the same, although I was more concerned about having sex on the surface my best friend typically sleeps on.

  “Let’s see how much it can take.” Bancroft turns me around, picks me up by the waist, and drops me on the bed. I lean back on my elbows, watching intently as he undresses. I wish I had music playing, something sexy to make into a striptease.

  He’s gorgeous, with or without a soundtrack. His pants slide down his legs leaving him in boxers, his hard-on visible through the red fabric. The dim lighting casts shadows on the outline. I bite my lip and hum my appreciation.

  He tugs at the waistband and lets it snap back. “See something you like?”

  “I like the entire package, but the one inside those shorts wins all the awards.”

  He pulls the right side down, then the left,
lower and lower until the head peeks out. I sigh when he’s fully unveiled. Bancroft gives himself a slow stroke and I push up, thinking I might like to be the one who does that, but he puts a hand up to stop me. “I’ll come to you.”

  He shoves his underwear the rest of the way down and steps out of them. Nudging my knees apart with his, he stretches out over me. My legs are still hanging off the bed and so are his.

  “First, I’m going to fuck you, then I’m going to love you.”

  I shiver from the promise and his tone. And then I groan when the thick head of his erection slides over slick skin. Bancroft keeps his eyes on mine as he rocks forward, easing inside.

  The first few strokes are slow, but it’s been a long week of silence and uncertainty, so an undercurrent of desperation makes it hard to maintain the sweetness.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He strokes my cheek with warm fingers. “For what?”

  “For thinking the worst.”

  “No need for apologies, but if you still feel bad about it later you can let me fuck your mouth.”

  “I was going to do that anyway.”

  He flashes a smirky grin. “I figured as much since you couldn’t seem to get enough of it last time.”

  “You’re losing points again.”

  “I guess I should do something to earn them back, then.”

  Bancroft starts with a slow grind that makes the bed rock a little, but when he picks up speed and starts fucking me in earnest, the creaking grows infinitely louder.

  I’m getting close, but I’m worried we might actually break Amie’s bed and it’s distracting.

  “Maybe we should move to the floor,” I say somewhat breathlessly. It’s hard to talk and be plundered at the same time.

  Bancroft shoves a hand under me, grabs hold of my right butt cheek, claps my palm against the back of his neck, and lifts me up on the next thrust. Spinning around, he pins me against the wall, and keeps right on going.

  Every muscle in his torso is straining and tight, his neck corded, biceps flexing. He really wasn’t kidding about fucking me. It might be lovingly, but the impending orgasm promises to be nerve shattering.