by Gemma James
I can’t help but gape at him. “So you’re saying you and Mom have an open marriage?”
“Yes, for many years now, and this is why I know you and Monica can make it work.”
“I’m not you, Dad. Zero respect remains between Monica and me. She couldn’t even tell me the truth until she got cornered into it. Our marriage is dead and has been for a long time.”
“You’re positive this is what you want?”
“Yes. I’m in love with someone else, and Monica…she still has feelings for Kaden.”
“This isn’t how I envisioned things would end.”
“You and me both.”
“And you’re sure Ned won’t be a problem?”
I lean forward, confronting my father head-on. “You need to trust me to do my job. Ned Blake will pay for what he’s done. I will protect the company.”
“I sense a ‘but’ in there somewhere, son.”
“But I’m not your puppet.” I set the untouched drink onto the table next to his then slide my wedding band off my finger. “It’s time to cut the strings, Dad.” The ring drops to the table next to the glasses. “If you want to keep me on as CEO, then it’s time you started enjoying retirement.”
24. Don't Speak
Jules
Les walks me back to the alleyway outside my apartment complex, and that’s where we part with a hug. I’m exhausted from lack of sleep these past few nights, but I’m anxious to get back to Cash. He sent me a text half an hour ago, letting me know that he’s waiting, having used the key I left under the mat for him.
I make my way up the stairs, open the door, and I’m struck speechless at the sight before me. Candles light up every surface. The soft glow spools romantic ambience through the space, driving out the horror of Chris’ unwanted visit and everything he brought with it. I lock the door and step into the living room, sensing Cash behind me before his hands settle onto my shoulders.
His lips drift down my neck as he unbuttons the light sweater I wore to go out with Les. “How was dinner with your friend?”
“It was good, but I missed you.” It’s only been a couple of hours, but it’s absolutely true. I thirst for this man like I’d thirst for water after a three-day trek in the desert.
He slides the sweater down my arms and unsnaps my bra, unwrapping me bit by bit until I’m left standing naked in the middle of my living room, skin aglow in the candlelight.
“You’re overdressed,” I complain.
“A problem I plan to fix very soon.” He dips and hauls me into his arms, cradling me as if I’m the most precious thing in the world to him.
“Did things go well with your wife?” I wind my arms around his neck as he carries me into my bedroom, which is lit up like the rest of the apartment.
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk about that right now. We have plenty of time for that later.”
“What do you have in mind then?” I tease, spying a duffle in the corner of the room that I don’t recognize. A thrill travels through me at the sight of that bag.
He really came back, and he’s planning to stay.
He drops me onto the mattress before shedding his clothing. “I plan to engage in plenty of touching, kissing, and fucking you a hundred ways to Sunday.” The bed dips under his weight, and his warm body blankets me. “Definitely no talking.”
“But—”
He presses a finger against the seam of my mouth. “No talking, Jules.” Slowly, he pushes the digit between my lips, and the salt of his skin lingers on my tastebuds. His eyes are metallic with desire in the candlelight, but that finger…
Holy hell, he’s sliding it between my lips in a way that tells me what he has on his mind.
“You said you can’t be scared away. Is that true?”
His finger slips from my lips, and I nod.
“I’m going to hold you to that.” He leaves the bed then returns a few seconds later, and my gaze lands on the tie in his hands. Instead of using it to restrain my wrists, this time he fastens it around my eyes, blotting out the glow of the room.
All of my nerve endings sing with awareness once my sight is taken, every sense on hyper alert.
The cool air on my skin.
The heat emanating from his body.
The rapid sound of his breathing.
The taste of his kiss as his tongue darts between my lips. He moans into my mouth, and I respond in kind, arching into his body, moving to clutch his shoulders. He breaks the kiss and slams my hands to the mattress.
“I’m going to make you ache to beg, but you’re not allowed to.” His breath blasts the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “You’re not allowed to move, either.”
His words send a shiver through me, and I can’t help but shudder. Goose bumps erupt on my skin, and I feel my nipples harden. I’m already a heartbeat away from begging, the tingle in my breasts calling his mouth, aching for the heat of his hands.
“If you say a word,” he says, sliding down my body, lips leaving a teasing path between my breasts, “I won’t let you come tonight.”
My breath hitches, a rebellious plea dancing on my tongue, but something in his tone tells me he’s telling the truth.
He’ll leave me in agony if I don’t obey.
I mash my lips together and swallow with a gulp. The instant his tongue dips into my belly button, my spine bows. I bite my lip to keep quiet. God, he plans to torture me with sensation overload, all the while forbidding me to see or speak.
What a diabolical, devilishly sexy man.
I fist my hands as he moves to my left breast, mouth closing around the sensitive peak, teeth clamping down until pleasure turns to pain. I gasp but manage to refrain from saying a word. He journeys to my right breast before once again lowering to my belly button, tongue hot and wicked on my skin.
Then he moves lower.
I hold my breath as he pushes my thighs apart. His fingers spread me in indecent exposure, leaving every inch of me bare in the candlelight. Somehow, with my sight taken, I feel more vulnerable than ever.
At the first dip of his hot, wet tongue between the folds of my womanhood, I almost fracture.
Almost break the rules.
Almost cry his name in a plea for more.
Staying still and quiet has never been so difficult.
He moans against my flesh, lips closing around my clit, and the skill of his tongue sends me higher and higher, until there’s nothing but sparks behind my blindfolded eyelids. It gives the term “seeing stars” new meaning.
I can’t help the gasping mewls escaping my lips, but gasping and moaning must be okay because his fingers thrust into me, again and again, keeping time with his tongue. I’m dangerously close, and I want to tell him so, but he made it clear I’m not allowed to beg.
I’m not allowed to come, either. The rule is unspoken yet powerful between us, and I’m aching for his permission.
As if he senses my sexual uprising, he pulls back and slows the rhythm of his fingers. It’s not enough. I’m too worked up, but he’s not touching me enough to send me over the edge.
“Christ, Jules. I could watch you like this all night.”
I resist squirming against the mattress. Nails biting into my palms, I thrust my breasts upward, nipples hard and tingly. He never said a thing about not begging with my body. And sweet Jesus, is my body ever begging.
Shaking apart at the joints.
Nothing but a tight wire ready to snap.
The tempo of his fingers triple, and I flood around those digits, too damn close to releasing the rising pressure.
“Don’t come, Jules.”
His deep, throaty timbre is enough to make me climax, but I hold back, teeth grinding together in the effort. His breathing quickens. So does the pulsing around his fingers.
I whimper.
“You’re so wet,” he whispers. “But you won’t come, and all because I told you not to.” He curses under his thready breath. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
&nbs
p; I sense movement, then the crinkle of foil followed by the hiss of his breath as he rolls on the condom. Seconds later, he grips me by the hips and plunges into me. “Fucking hell,” he groans. “Come for me.”
He thrusts to the hilt, inducing a massive orgasm that rips through me with such intensity that each wave launches from my throat in a soundless cry, and I scream his name without making a sound at all.
25. In Confidence
Cash
It’s 3 a.m. when I awake and find Jules staring at the ceiling. We blew out the candles before we fell asleep in each other’s arms, but the streetlight from the alleyway sends enough illumination into the room to highlight the strain on her face.
“What’s wrong?” I draw a stray hair out of her eyes, wondering if she’s still processing everything I told her after we made love. I held nothing back on the subject of Monica’s duplicity.
Her gaze lands on my hand, sans wedding band, and there’s no mistaking the softening of her expression. I like that Jules has a little possessiveness in her, and though she won’t admit it, the sight of my ring was an emotional barrier between us.
One that was weakening, but it was still there, nevertheless. Now nothing stands in the way of us being together.
“Jules,” I say softly, turning fully onto my side to face her. “Something’s on your mind. Talk to me.”
She lets out a breath, allows several seconds to sneak past, and I can almost hear the gears shifting in her head. “Chris came back after you left.”
My whole body stiffens. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
I expel a breath of pure relief, heartbeat slowing to normal, but it’s short-lived. Fear shoots through my veins, and for an agonizing second, I think that maybe I’ve got it all wrong.
Maybe she doesn’t want to be with me.
But no. That’s not regret blanketing her face. Something happened to upset her, and for whatever reason, she’s only now telling me. I curse under my breath. Maybe if I hadn’t jumped her bones as soon as she returned from dinner, she would have confided in me sooner.
And that’s been the problem since the day I met her; I have zero fucking control when it comes to Jules.
“Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m sure.” But even as she denies it, moisture seeps from the corners of her eyes. “Not like you’re thinking, anyway.” A breath shudders off her lips, and I can’t resist pulling her into my arms. One hand at her nape, I tuck the crown of her head under my chin. Our legs entwine as she returns the embrace.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not going anywhere.”
She lets out another shaky breath. “Chris cornered me. The way he was acting…the alcohol on his breath…his anger…”
“What did he do?” I barely keep my voice level. Part of me is already envisioning jumping out of bed and hunting down her ex.
“He triggered a memory.”
I veer back and search her face. “A memory?”
With a nod, she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “From the night I slept with Perry.”
Perry, her prior boss in Oklahoma. Dread turns in the bottom of my gut. The following moments are soundless, yet they go off in my ears like a tuning fork. I hold my breath, silently offering her my support, and wait for her to continue.
“I remembered something.”
More seconds are lost—time Jules will never get back. Precious seconds she’ll never forget.
“What did you remember?”
A shuddering sob bursts from inside her. She frees herself from my embrace and winds her arms around her knees. “I think he might’ve drugged me. I just remember being so weak, unable to lift my head or keep my eyes open. I said no…I tried to say no. He…he fucking held me down.”
I sit up, aching to touch her, to hold her. But I hesitate, fingers a hairbreadth away from stroking her back. I have no fucking clue how to navigate this situation, and if I’m not careful, I’ll let the rage toward her former boss send me into a tailspin. She doesn’t need rage, or pity, or my protective instincts.
She just needs me to listen.
I lower my hand onto her shoulder, almost expecting her to flinch, but she doesn’t. “It’s not your fault, Jules.”
She lets out another sob, shoulder quaking under my touch. “Deep down, I know that.”
But she’s having trouble believing it. Jesus Christ, I’ve never felt so helpless. And I can’t not hold her right now. Scooting behind her, I settle at her back and pull her between my thighs, winding my arms around her. “If I have my way, no one will ever hurt you again.”
“You can’t protect me from every bad situation in life.” She turns her head until our mouths linger an inch apart. “But I love you for wanting to.”
“It’s second nature to protect you.”
She turns in my arms, and we lie between the sheets again. She rests her head on my chest. “To make matters worse,” she says with a dry laugh, “Chris said he got my sister pregnant.”
I rub a hand down my face. Fuck, I want to murder her ex.
“How could my own sister do this to me? How could Perry?”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Did you tell your friend what you remembered?”
“No.” She curls her fingers around my bicep. “I don’t want to talk about this again. I just…I needed to get it off my chest.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes. It’s been months, and I’ve moved on. Maybe I even knew the truth, deep down.”
“He should pay for what he did to you.”
“It would be his word against mine. I have no proof. Besides…I’m not even a hundred percent sure it happened the way I remembered.”
I wrap her in my arms as if I’ll never let go and breathe into her hair through gritted teeth. I’m already concocting plans, studying the angles. The possibilities. In a few weeks, I’ll be in OKC for business, and I’d place a wager that I have a few connections with the fucker who violated her.
The kind of connections that hold positions of power and might owe MontBlake a favor or two. If I can’t see him behind bars, I can fuck the bastard up on a professional level.
Right after I fuck up his face.
She lifts her head, and her gaze locks with mine. “Let it go, Cash.”
I exhale the tension in my lungs. “I could ruin him.”
The shake of her head is resolute. “I told you because I needed to tell someone, and there’s no one I trust more than you. Please…I need you to let it go.”
“Jesus, Jules.” I close my eyes and count the painful beats of my heart. “For you, I’ll try.”
She lays her head on my chest once again, and even after sleep sends her drifting, and her breathing levels out, my hands remain two tight fists at her back, holding her to me with all I am.
Jules deserves justice. At the very least, she deserves closure. But I know the world doesn’t always work that way, and sometimes, the only thing a person can do is let go and move forward.
26. Birthday Surprise
Jules
The morning of my birthday, I awake alone in bed, but the bouquet of colorful tulips on my nightstand brings a smile to my face. Next to the flowers awaits a note.
Happy Birthday to the woman I love. I didn’t have the heart to wake you.
P.S. — Your boss gave you the day off. Go do something special.
Stopping by his office to do him probably isn’t what he meant, so I run through the possibilities—lunch with Les, browsing the offerings at Pike Place, getting my hair done for the party tonight—and that’s when a wave of nausea hits, sending me bolting for the bathroom. I make it just in time, lifting the lid and spewing what little I have left in my gut.
I’ve been vomiting for the last four days. On the first day, I stayed in bed, thinking it was a stomach bug. Ditto on day two. By day three, I was ready to face facts.
Cash and I didn’t u
se protection that first weekend, and now I’m late and puking my guts out. So naturally, on the fourth day—my fucking birthday of all days—I come to the conclusion it’s time to get confirmation.
I yank open a drawer and pull out the pregnancy test I bought on my way home from work yesterday. After pissing on the little white stick, I replace the cap, set it on the counter, then grip the edge, eyes closed as I tick off the seconds in my head.
180 to be exact. Three minutes. A blip in the grand scheme of life, but in this moment, three minutes mean everything. I place a hand over my belly, and a thick lump of excitement lodges in my throat.
Part of me wants this baby.
Just three weeks ago, Cash mentioned white picket fences and children, but I couldn’t see past the ring on his finger. Now his hand is free of jewelry that obligated him to another woman. Divorce papers have been filed, and Monica was arraigned on a plea deal last week to pay for her crime.
Everything we hoped for is spread out before us.
I open my eyes and glance down at the stick. My pulse takes off in a gallop upon the plus sign I find there, and I let out a sob full of laughter. My head is reeling as I return to the bedroom and begin dressing for the day.
A day that’s open in front of me, waiting for me to do whatever I want with it. Grabbing my purse and cell, I head toward the door and pull it open. The last person I expect to find on the other side, fist poised to knock, is my sister.
Brit raises her gaze to mine. “Can we talk?”
I fold my arms. “I guess you’re not giving me a choice. You and Chris have that in common, among other things.” I should have anticipated her pulling the same move Chris did after I refused her phone calls, but I didn’t think Brit cared enough to fly all the way out here.
And yet here she is. My sister’s lush, ebony locks are gathered into a ponytail, and she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup. Her eyes—normally a light sea-blue—are muted with exhaustion.