Arrogant Bastard

by Jennifer Dawson

  She plays with her bottle of beer, and I remember last week, when the two of us were easy together—the attraction between us present but unspoken.

  She glances at me, her eyes unsure, and when she speaks, her voice is low and soft. “I can get someone else. You don’t have to be forced to eat with me.”

  She bites her lower lip, and I track the movement. For a second I get lost in the kiss we shared in the office—the press of her lips against mine, the feel of her tongue, the heat of her breath.

  I grit my teeth, shoving the memory back where it belongs: as something that should never have happened.

  I shake my head. “It will be fine.”

  “I know you don’t want to, so don’t.” She looks at Gwen and Jackson, then shrugs a bit. “I’ll show up with someone else.”

  “I want to.” The words are clipped and sharp, just not for the reason she thinks.

  She’s shaking her head. “No, you don’t. It’s fine. I can take care of it.”

  Her femaleness in this moment irritates me, and after being good for so long, I snap. “I fucking want to, Cat. That’s the problem.”

  That’s the trouble with being good. It wears on you until you give in to being bad.

  A quick intake of air. “Not as much as you want to stay away from me.”

  “I can’t stay away from you. I work for you.”

  Her brow furrows, like maybe she’s confused, but then her expression clears. “Of course. But you’re not required to eat with me, so I’ll get someone else.”

  I meet her eyes. “I said I’ll do it, and I will.”

  “But—”

  I cut her off. “Will you just shut up?”

  The fine cords of her throat work as she swallows. “No.”

  I sigh. “You want another drink then?”

  She shakes her head. “Actually, I think I’m going to leave.”

  “How are you getting home?”

  “I’ve got my car.” Cat turns to the table and feigns a loud yawn. “I’m beat, so I’m going to take off.” She turns to Gabe, who finally tears himself away from Mandy the redhead. “I trust you can find a way home.”

  Mandy doesn’t miss a beat. “I can take him.”

  “Great.” Cat gestures toward the seat. “Can you let me out?”

  Gwen frowns at Cat. “Don’t go yet.”

  But she’s already gathering her purse, unable to escape fast enough. “I’m tired, and I have a bunch of stuff that needs to be done early tomorrow.”

  She’s upset with me, I think, although I can’t be 100-percent sure. Somehow whenever I’m around her, I end up making things worse instead of better. It bothers me. It shouldn’t, but it does. I should let her go on her way and find a woman to take out my frustration on, like I’ve been telling myself I should do for weeks.

  But of course, that’s not what I do.

  When Gabe slides out of the seat to allow her an exit, I follow right behind her. “Wait.”

  She turns, looking back at me. “Yeah?”

  I meet her eyes. “Can you give me a lift?”

  Two lines appear on her forehead. She glances around the table, probably wondering what she can say to reject the request without raising suspicion.

  I head her off. “Since we are going to the same place.”

  She flashes a glare before her face clears. “Sure.”

  I’m not sure if I’m relieved or want to kick myself. I guess my desire to clear the air is stronger than my sense of self preservation. No surprise there.

  We say our goodbyes and walk out of the place. We enter her car in silence. The drive is tense. She doesn’t make conversation and neither do I.

  I’m still trying to gather my thoughts and formulate a plan when she pulls up in front of the small cabin I call home. I stare at the front door. Maybe it’s best to get out of this car and leave everything unspoken, but I don’t move.

  Finally she loses patience and points to the porch. “Are we done here?”

  “I don’t know, are we?” Stupid question.

  Her head jerks in my direction. “Yeah, I think we are.”

  I shift to face her. “It seems I always do the wrong thing where you’re concerned.”

  She stares out through the windshield, refusing to meet my gaze. “We’re on the same page.”

  And yet she’s angry. “It’s the smart page. The page we both agreed on.”

  “I know.” She points at my front door. “You can go now.”

  I could, but things feel unfinished. “I have something I need to say.”

  “What’s that?” Her tone is well modulated, but the tension in her shoulders gives her away.

  Nothing can change the way things need to be, but I want her to understand. “I want you. I feel like you doubt that, but don’t. It’s hard for me to stay away from you.”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but I’m not sure this conversation leads to anywhere good, so I continue, “Goodnight, Cat.”

  I climb out of the car and walk up the two steps that lead to the safety inside.

  9

  Cat

  I can’t sleep. It’s too hot, the sheets are tangled, and I keep replaying Caden’s parting words in my head. Frustrated, I get out of bed, grab my phone, and go to the double doors that lead to the balcony off my bedroom. I walk outside, letting the warm breeze float across my skin.

  I sit on the double chaise lounge, lean back against the thick cushions, and stare up at the stars twinkling bright in the sky. I discard my cell. It’s too pretty to surf the internet, and my mind needs quiet, not more distraction.

  Distraction isn’t working for me.

  “I want you.”

  I’m glad he left, because I have no idea what I was going to say. I wish he didn’t affect me so much. But he’s awakened an ache inside me that I can’t talk myself out of, no matter how hard I try.

  My body has no interest in complying with the demands of my mind, and I’m restless.

  I shift my legs, and the white silk of my nightgown slides against my skin. I spend so much time in jeans and shorts and casual clothes—unless it’s my day to be out front or I’m entertaining buyers—I like to wear pretty things to bed, even though nobody sees them.

  It’s my one indulgence.

  If only I could get Caden out of my mind. But I can still taste his kiss. What’s worse, I still want the press of his mouth against mine, and more. So much more.

  Unbidden, my thoughts run away with me.

  I remember his teeth scraping over my nipple that night in the car.

  The way I rode his fingers.

  How hard I came and how good it felt to just…let go.

  I haven’t come since that night, even though I’ve thought about it. Somehow, I’m irrationally sure he’ll know I touched myself thinking about him.

  I lick my dry lips, and the breeze picks up, stirring the persistent ache that’s only grown since the day he walked into my office. I press my fingers to my mouth, letting them play over the soft flesh there. Brushing over my lips, I try to recreate the friction of his mouth.

  It’s not working, but it stirs enough of the memory to have my thighs clenching. I raise one knee, squeezing to quell the dull throb between my legs. My gaze drifts to the cabin. It’s dark, and I can barely make out the outline of the small house. There are no lights on inside.

  He’s probably sleeping in his bed, peaceful and unfettered by thoughts of me.

  As my vision adjusts, sharpens, the house comes into focus.

  I know the layout like it’s my own: the bedroom in the back next to the kitchen, the small bathroom, the living room, all cozy and full of wood. He’d look good there, lying on the couch, long legs stretched out.

  The cabin has a porch running the length of it, and a rocking chair my granddaddy made way back when sits in the corner. Instead of sleeping, Caden could be sitting there right now, the chair creaking under his weight as he rocks back and forth.

  What would it be like t
o fuck him on that chair? Letting the rocking motion do the work for us, his cock moving inside me. His fingers were magic, but I want the real thing. I can almost picture myself kneeling in front of him, unzipping his jeans, taking him into my mouth as I look up at him. I can envision him staring down at me, those mysterious, guarded navy eyes intent on my face, watching me squirm. There’s something about him that makes me want to surrender, to lose myself in him and what he wants.

  I’m not good at losing myself, and I wonder if that’s part of my attraction. Because every time he touches me, I forget everything but how he feels—like a switch that turns off my brain. It feels like something I’ve wanted for so long, I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t there.

  He restrained himself that night, and I crave the sight of him unleashed. I think of him whispering about how I was a slut for him, and in this moment, I want to find out what that looks like for real.

  I moan, my hips tilting a little, the soft center of me swollen and teasing.

  I want to give in, let him sweep me away until I’m mindless and aching and begging. It’s a foreign idea—one I’ve heard women talk about but not one I’ve coveted myself. I like being in control. I took control that night, but it’s not what I want now.

  I want him to take me.

  I can’t quite pinpoint how I want him to make me feel; I just know he can deliver.

  I want him to make me forget—what, I’m not sure… But something.

  Like maybe how my life didn’t turn out the way I’d planned.

  Or how tired I am of working so hard for everyone else’s dreams and not my own.

  And how it’s such a habit now, I don’t even know what my dreams are anymore.

  I’m not foolish enough to think Caden can solve that, because no one can fix that but me, but he can make me forget…for at least a little while.

  It’s not an option. He works for us. My brothers would kill me. It will end badly. There are a million good reasons. Besides, he’s made himself clear, and of course he’s right. It’s the smart choice.

  But I want him to burn, goddamn it, like I am.

  To drive him crazy, like he’s driving me.

  My gaze is still trained on the porch, its dark corners.

  In an instant, my mind concocts a fantasy.

  Of him, watching me from the shadows.

  My tongue wets my lips again and I move, brushing my fingers over my mouth once more before trailing them down my neck. A kind of fever takes hold as I envision him watching me.

  Even if he’s there, which he’s not, I doubt he could see much.

  He’s not there.

  But in my fervor, I want to believe.

  I let my hands drift to the swell of my breasts. I just want to pretend, out here by myself. I want him to be watching me. I want him hard and aching, feeling caged as he witnesses my actions from a distance.

  I keep my eyes on the porch, on that corner where I know the chair is, and conjure him there. I trace my beaded nipples with my fingers, circling through the silk. My head drops back against the cushion, my hips rise as the soft fabric rides up my thighs.

  I’m not wearing any panties, and I let my legs widen, so the air brushes my overheated skin.

  He’s watching me, I tell myself.

  Watching me.

  Watching.

  The more I think it, the hotter I get.

  I pull one strap down, baring a breast, running my thumb over the peak, while my fingers play.

  My fantasy takes on a mind of its own, consuming me in an exhibitionist whirlwind I’ve never experienced before, filling me with fantasies I’ve never had and giving me a taste of what I’d do for him, a taste of what it would be like to be under his spell.

  What would he do? Stroke his cock? Or watch me?

  I think he’d watch, his expression all hard lines and prowling intensity. Yes, that’s what I want—to witness the hunger that’s consuming me in his eyes.

  I let the other strap fall and cup my breasts, running my thumbs over my nipples again and again until I’m breathing hard and my hips arch.

  I squeeze my legs together and rock up, circling my hips so I can feel the friction between my thighs, nothing but a tease.

  It feels so good.

  I don’t want to stop.

  I never want to stop.

  He’s watching.

  Watching.

  Watching.

  I don’t care if it’s a fantasy; it feels true.

  When I can’t stand it anymore, I move one hand down my stomach and between my legs.

  I’m so wet, so aching.

  I part my thighs. Circle my clit with the tip of my fingers.

  Light. Feathery.

  I stare off at the porch, lips parted.

  I don’t want to come yet.

  I’m not ready to lose this.

  In my fantasy, he’d want me to stop before I go over the edge, want me to drag it out and prolong this show I’m giving him.

  So when I’m about to tip over the edge, I move away and return to my breasts, increasing the ache.

  Everything gets sharper.

  Like it’s the edge of a blade I’m perched on.

  I imagine him twisting the knife.

  Then I start the process all over again.

  Rubbing and touching and moaning as I think of him watching me.

  I throw my whole heart into it, letting it sweep me up and push me higher before calming down again.

  My whole body is on fire.

  Consuming me.

  He’s watching.

  Watching.

  Watching.

  Over and over. So close to the edge. Him whispering to stop. Obeying and beginning again. I go on like that, lost and frenzied and mindless, until a fine sheen of sweat has broken out across my skin and I’m so slick and swollen I think I might lose my mind.

  Watch me.

  Fuck. Please be watching.

  And when I can stand it no longer, I push myself over the edge.

  I bite my lip to keep from crying out as the orgasm shakes my body. My hips lift into the air, and I work every last swell and release from my body until I collapse and, panting, finally go still.

  Satiated, my muscles melt like jelly and all the anxious tension I’ve been walking around with seeps from my body. The sensation is temporary, but I’ll take it.

  I’ll be embarrassed soon enough, but for now, this will do.

  At long last, I think I can sleep.

  I adjust my nightgown, covering my breasts and shielding my body from the elements. I manage to climb off the oversized lounger, which suddenly wants to suck me down in to its plushness.

  I have to hurry, before I lose this feeling and sleep eludes me. Lids heavy, I pick up my phone and open the doors to my bedroom, where I can crawl into bed.

  My eyes drift closed.

  My phone dings.

  My heartbeat kicks up, beating fast and furious, sleep washing away like I’ve been doused with a bucket of cold water.

  I look at the screen, see his name.

  My whole body goes into overdrive.

  I slowly slide my finger across the screen, opening his text.

  Sleep well, Cat.

  Caden

  * * *

  In the morning, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have sent the text. No, I definitely shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t help myself. I watched her from the shadows the entire time, aching to go to her and deliver what she was craving.

  In the moonlight, she was so beautiful, stretched out in white, breasts bared. I hadn’t been able to see her cunt, but the memory of how wet she’d been that night was still fresh in my mind, vivid enough to know how slick she must’ve been at that moment.

  Maybe I’d have been able to resist texting her if she hadn’t looked in my direction the entire time she’d been touching herself. She’d wanted me to be there, and I was.

  Of course, she couldn’t have known, but it felt like we were locked together
, intimate and hot, full of lust and desire. In the hidden shadows, we could be free.

  Watching her, I experienced the full force of her longing, and I was somehow surprised to find it matched my own.

  So, yeah, I shouldn’t have sent the text.

  But that twisted part of me wanted her to wonder, to have her mind race with was-he-or-wasn’t-he questions, to be full of thoughts of me.

  Another stupid move on a long list of stupid moves where she’s concerned.

  Now here I am, searching out the consequences of my actions. I walk past her office and find it empty.

  I have no reason to seek her out. She has her responsibilities, and I have mine. They don’t have to intersect this morning, but I want to see her. I need to see her reaction to me, need to see her flustered.

  Obviously, I’ve got issues.

  I rationalize it because I don’t intend on bluntly telling her I watched every second of her fucking herself with her fingers. But I’m compelled to confront her, to put her on edge, waiting and wondering, unable to ask me directly.

  It’s why I sent the text the way I did. Ambiguous.

  I’m toying with her. I shouldn’t be, but I am.

  It’s a dangerous game I’m playing.

  And despite the logic, the rationality and my conviction to stay away from her, I cannot resist. In my head, I’m just testing, insisting I won’t do anything. I’m giving myself a taste of what it would be like to fuck with her, to fill her head with lustful thoughts that tease and torment her.

  I believe it…kinda.

  Underneath though, I know the truth. I’m lighting the match, wanting to get burned. It’s my fatal flaw. I can’t resist the flame.

  If I let it consume me, I’ll implode. But I keep telling myself I won’t let it get that far, that I’ll pull back and do the right thing.

  But we’ll see.

  I’m good at lying, to myself and others.

  I wander through the distillery, the hum of machines a soft whine in the background, and I finally locate her in the reserve tasting room, busy and focused behind the counter.

  When I open the glass door, she turns around, a smile on her face that fades from her lips the second she sees me, a hot flush climbing up her cheeks.