The Deal (Arranged Book 1)

by Stella Gray

  Surely, this introduction would not go the way of the others.

  But to my surprise, the redhead nodded at the sneering man and then he was pulling her through the crowd toward the exit, his fingers digging into her arm. Her smile looked strained, and it even slipped a couple of times before they disappeared from sight.

  Luka couldn’t possibly appreciate his father pawning off a woman who was the mother of his child. And he definitely wouldn’t be happy seeing her leave with another man—especially not one like that; a thug who had treated her like a piece of cargo, dragging her across the room with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Maybe Luka wasn’t the father after all.

  Or maybe he hadn’t seen what had just gone down.

  I couldn’t just ignore it. Tugging on Stefan’s arm, I led him to a relatively quiet corner and quickly told him everything I’d witnessed—Luka’s behavior toward the model who’d been crying at KZM, the introduction his father had made, the scary older man she had left with.

  I expected him to be as surprised and suspicious as I was, but he barely mustered a shrug.

  “It’s not our business to police the actions of our talent,” he said. “We’re their agents. Anything beyond that isn’t our call.”

  “But it’s strange, don’t you think? Especially since she’s pregnant?” I asked. Especially if the baby was Luka’s. “I can’t believe she’d willingly leave with a man like that.”

  “Maybe she likes older men,” Stefan said, smiling and waving at someone across the room, seeming like he was only half listening to what I had said.

  “It didn’t seem like she ‘liked’ him,” I said, exasperated. “How are your alarm bells not going off? It’s obvious she was having fun with Luka before. She didn’t seem to be having fun with this guy at all.” I emphasized Luka’s name to see if that prompted a reaction from Stefan.

  It didn’t.

  “You’re getting too involved in other people’s affairs,” Stefan said, finally looking at me. “It’s not for you to intervene, kitty cat.”

  I got a little thrill out of him using the nickname he gave me.

  “But—”

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ve had enough work for one day. We’ll go back to the hotel. We don’t have to talk about anything at all.”

  The look in his eyes told me exactly what he wanted to do when we got back to our room. If he wasn’t going to be concerned about any of this, I supposed I shouldn’t either. Maybe this behavior was completely normal in the modeling world, and I just didn’t understand how these things worked. I mean, I had to be wrong. The baby couldn’t be Luka’s. I was misreading the situation, and there were more important things to focus on than a single pregnancy scandal.

  He leaned forward to whisper in my ear. “We leave now, and I’ll take exactly one order from your lips before I tie your hands to the bedpost. Deal?” he asked.

  My cheeks went hot, my knees already weak. How could I resist?

  “Deal,” I told him.

  Tori

  Chapter 26

  I rolled over in bed, stretching my arms languorously, lifting one eyelid to check the time on the bedside clock. With a shock of adrenaline, I realized we were supposed to be back in Chicago by now. I’d stayed up so late with Stefan last night, I’d slept until almost eleven.

  “Stefan?” I called out across the suite. Had he left without me?

  “You can relax,” he shushed me as he entered the bedroom. “I’ve decided we should stay in town for one more day. The others went back early this morning.”

  Another day in New York! I was so excited that I immediately got up, thinking of all the things we could do. Until I realized that Stefan probably wanted to stay for another reason.

  “So you have a lot of work to do, I guess?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I thought we’d get out. See the city.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I got dressed in record time, wearing a pair of lace-up boots, comfortable jeans, and a blue cashmere sweater. Regardless of my laid-back style choices, I could tell Stefan appreciated my attire by the way his eyes raked down my body.

  I practically skipped out of the suite, unbelievably excited to spend the entire day in New York with Stefan. It would be like our first day in Vienna, only better—because as we got into the cab, I noticed that Stefan’s phone was absent from its permanent place in his hand.

  As the city passed outside the window, I asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I’m gonna show you New York,” Stefan said. “You told me you always wanted to see it.”

  He had been listening to me. My heart soared.

  We spent the whole day sightseeing. We went to Ess-a-Bagel first, to get coffee and real New York bagels. They were fresh and hot, slightly crisp on the outside and chewy on the inside, and I finally understood what the big deal about New York bagels was. Stefan ordered his with egg and pastrami, and mine was piled high with apple cinnamon cream cheese. Then we went to see Rockefeller Center and the New York Public Library, where they had an exhibit on Jazz culture in Harlem and another one on Walt Whitman. Stefan even bought me a bag of roasted almonds after I exclaimed about the smell of honey and sugar on the street.

  We got to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the late afternoon and stayed until dark, me drooling over the American Jewelry collection and the ancient marble statues; Stefan clearly appreciating the rooms full of armor and Egyptian artifacts. Finally, he stopped and spent awhile slowly circling a gallery hung with modern paintings that were reminiscent of his mother’s.

  As he stood there gazing at one particularly imposing piece, I walked up and took his hand. “They remind me of hers,” I said, pointing. “The strong lines, and the shadowy figures. There’s a lot of emotion here, don’t you think?”

  He looked over at me, mildly shocked, and I worried that I shouldn’t have said anything.

  “Emzee told me about the paintings at home,” I explained. “I hadn’t realized they were your mother’s. They’re really stunning. Intense. But so good.”

  Stefan nodded. “I think so too. I’m glad you like them.”

  And then he squeezed my hand, and I felt so warm just standing there with him.

  Afterward, we had dinner in Tribeca at Atera, which I realized must have been practically impossible to get a reservation at, since every single table was full and there weren’t many tables. The décor was very much Stefan’s style—all black leather, brushed steel, and acacia wood—and the eighteen-course tasting menu allowed me to sample a little bit of everything without feeling too stuffed. Every dish looked like a work of art on par with what we’d seen at the Met. My favorites were the sweet snow crab and the dessert, which was pine syrup-drizzled ice cream cut into a spiral of thin, paper-like sheets and decorated with tiny purple flowers.

  We ended the day in the most romantic way possible—taking a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park.

  I had never been so happy.

  Cuddled up under a blanket next to my husband, our breath making little clouds in the chilly New York air, I realized we’d just spent the perfect day together.

  As we circled the park, Stefan’s hand found its way to my knee under the blanket. I leaned against him, warmth spreading up my legs, wanting more. His hand moved higher, stroking the inside of my thigh. I could feel myself getting wet as I shifted helplessly in the seat. Suddenly, my jeans were too much of a barrier and the carriage ride was entirely too long.

  I wanted to be back at the hotel, with the Do Not Disturb sign hung on our door. Instead, I had to wait while we rode through Central Park and Stefan’s hand stroked up and down my leg, causing taut anticipation to build within me.

  Finally, the ride was over, and Stefan helped me out of the carriage.

  “Are you ready to go back to the hotel, kitty cat?” Stefan asked, his voice a throaty murmur in my ear.

  I was so turned on I could barely say anything, so I just nodded. We got in a cab
and made it back to the hotel within ten minutes and to our room in another five. Before the door was completely closed, Stefan had me pinned up against the wall, kissing me ravenously. Apparently, he hadn’t been the only one turned on during our ride through Central Park.

  His hands on me were rough, but I liked it. “Fuck me,” I murmured into his mouth.

  Abruptly, he pulled away. I sagged against the wall, immediately missing his touch. His taste.

  “Take off your clothes,” he ordered. “And get on the bed.”

  When I hesitated, he nearly growled at me.

  “Now,” he demanded.

  I hurried into the bedroom, shedding clothes as I went. Leaving everything on the floor, I climbed onto the king-sized bed. I was about to roll over, when Stefan’s voice stopped.

  “No, stay there,” he told me. “Just like that.”

  I was on my hands and knees, my ass in the air. It made me feel vulnerable and exposed, but I liked it. I wanted him to see me, see my body on display for him. I wanted him to touch me.

  When he did, it was a gentle touch at my ankle, but still I jolted at the spark of his skin on mine. His hot palm slid up the back of my leg, coming up to rest on my ass. Then, without warning, he drew his hand back and slapped me hard, right there.

  It stung, but it felt hot and tingling and good. I arched my back, wanting more.

  Stefan slapped my ass again. I moaned.

  “You like that?” he asked. “You like that, my filthy little kitty cat?”

  I nodded, wanting him to do it again, wanting him to leave a mark. When he did, the sound of his hand against my ass echoed in our hotel room. I braced my hands on the bedspread, my fingers gripping the comforter.

  His hand stroked my ass, soothing the sting, and then slipped down between my legs.

  “You’re already so wet,” he said.

  I was. I was wet for him. Aching for him. The way he touched me made me so hot. I looked back over my shoulder and saw that he was still fully dressed. That made me even hotter. I loved being naked while he was completely clothed, making him seem even more dominant. But I also loved feeling his body—his naked body—against mine.

  I loved it all.

  “Face forward,” he commanded.

  I did as he said, and heard him undressing: the rustling of fabric, the sound of a zipper, the metallic clink of his belt on the floor. My heart was beating faster and faster, awaiting his next move. Then his body weight shifted to the bed. I remained still, not knowing what to do.

  His body heat was behind me, his cock suddenly pressing against my lips. He traced the outline of my opening gently, and I rocked back against him, wanting more, but he pulled away.

  “Please,” I whimpered.

  “I’m going to fuck you when I’m ready to,” he told me. “And I’m going to fuck you until you can’t hold yourself up anymore.”

  My mouth was dry, I wanted him so badly. I felt his hand move up my back, between my shoulder blades. He pushed down, forcing my face against the comforter, my ass shoved even higher in the air. Then I felt him notch his cock against my pussy again. I could feel my wetness starting to drip down my thigh.

  Fisting my hair in one hand, he steadied my hip with the other.

  “Are you ready for this cock?” he asked.

  “Mmm hmm,” I murmured.

  “Tell me you want it,” he said.

  “I want it,” I panted. “I want your cock. Fuck me, please. Stefan—”

  My begging was cut off as he split me open, thrusting inside me so hard and deep that we both moaned. Then he started pumping, slow and steady and then faster, picking up speed as we found our rhythm, my cries of pleasure muffled against the bed.

  “You want this?” he rasped as his hips smacked against my ass.

  I could only moan louder as his hand slipped around to touch my clit. He squeezed it between his fingers, the sensation so intense and so perfect that I almost came, my whole body shuddering beneath him.

  “Oh my god,” I breathed, my hips bucking in time with his thrusts. “Oh my fucking god.”

  My cursing only encouraged him as he steadied me with both hands now, pounding into me more aggressively.

  “So big,” I said, gasping. “So hard. Give me more.”

  He lifted a hand and slapped my ass again. And again. And again. Each slap was accompanied by a deep thrust as I pressed my face against the bedspread, my hips high in the air. It had never been this way before; so wild, so intense, so forceful. I loved it, and I loved that he was letting himself go with me. He was completely in tune with what I wanted, giving me exactly what I needed to get off, and losing himself in the heat of the moment in the process.

  It felt like my entire body was vibrating with white-hot bursts of pleasure as he alternated between slapping my ass and pinching my clit. I knew my cheeks would be red and sore tomorrow, but I didn’t care. I wanted those marks on my body. I wanted the reminder that I was his. That my body was his.

  His thrusting sped up, and I could sense that he was nearing his own release. I spread my knees as wide as I could, allowing him even deeper. My orgasm built inside of me, unstoppable, and I cried out as I came, hard and deep, moaning his name.

  As my pussy clenched around him, I felt him lose control. His fingers dug into my hips, and he groaned as he came inside me.

  With both of us still breathing heavily, he eased his body on top of mine, pinning me to the bed. We stayed there for a moment, just catching our breath, and I could feel his heart pounding against my back.

  Despite everything we’d been through, I felt like our relationship was only growing stronger and deeper as each day passed. He was supportive of my dreams, he took care of me, and, recently, he was finally starting to open up, one small bit at a time. And the sex we had just kept getting hotter.

  In that moment, I knew that I loved him. I could only hope it was a matter of time until he realized he felt the same.

  Tori

  Chapter 27

  They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

  If that was true, then everything was going exactly according to plan.

  Things had felt different after Stefan and I returned from New York. It was hard to pinpoint precisely what had shifted for him, but it was indisputable. He still worked late hours, but now he made an effort to be home early enough that we could have dinner together. We’d sit in the living room or on the couch, chatting about our days (I always talked more, but that was par for the course and neither of us seemed to mind the dynamic) while Gretna served us one of her gourmet meals. I paid attention to which dishes Stefan responded to most, planning to surprise him with my own home-cooked meal.

  And now, the culmination of all my efforts was simmering deliciously right in front of me.

  I’d pulled Gretna aside a week ago and asked her, “What’s a fancy dinner you can make for someone, that’s also not too hard to prepare?”

  She looked me up and down. “Are you cooking for Mr. Zoric?”

  I blushed. “I’d like to. And I’d give you the night off, of course. But I don’t have a lot of experience, and I want him to be impressed. Really impressed. What can I do?”

  Gretna tilted her head, glanced around the kitchen, and nodded. “Risotto. It tastes like a million bucks but it’s just an elaborate preparation of rice. Everybody can make rice.”

  Smiling, I said, “That sounds perfect. I know he loves seafood—can I put something like that in there, too? Or will that make it too complicated?”

  “It’s not complicated,” she said. “But which seafood are we talking?”

  I thought about Stefan’s preferences. “How about scallops? And shrimp? Maybe some clams or mussels?”

  Grinning, Gretna nodded again. “Clams and mussels are easy—they open up their shells when they are ready. The scallops are a little more delicate, but we can practice.”

  “You’d do that for me?” I was overjoyed.

  “Of course. I’d nev
er forgive myself if I left you to overcook a scallop. They get chewy. Tastes like rubber. A perfect scallop will melt in the mouth.”

  I decided I’d sear the scallops and serve them beside the risotto, and then chose asparagus with poached eggs as the side. Gretna gave me scallop-searing lessons for the whole week leading up to Stefan’s surprise. I was shocked to find that it was easier than I’d expected—just a quick few minutes to cook each side—and that I was enjoying myself. Learning to poach eggs was a different story. I struggled time and time again, ruining countless eggs by turning them into disintegrating, inedible blobs.

  “I just can’t get it right,” I’d told Gretna on Thursday evening. “I’m following the directions exactly. But every time I pull them out of the water, they fall apart.”

  “It takes a lot of trial and error to poach an egg,” she said sagely. “Some people never master it.”

  I frowned. “Is there anything else I can do? What if I fry them instead? I can fry eggs.”

  “Of course you can.” Gretna brightened. “I should have thought of it myself. It will still be an elegant presentation. And he will love it.”

  I took her words to heart and tried to convince myself to relax.

  And now here I was, standing in the kitchen in a cute apron I’d picked up from a boutique near campus, a gorgeous pan of buttery seared scallops sitting on the stove beside my bubbling risotto. The asparagus was in the broiler, almost finished, and my fried eggs and parmesan were waiting to become garnish. I was sweating, and high on adrenaline, but I couldn’t wait for Stefan to get home.

  I just hoped he wouldn’t walk into the kitchen and see the disaster I’d wrought. The counters were covered in bits of parsley and lemon juice, spilled salt and pepper sprinkled left and right, grains of rice on the floor and shrimp shells in the sink. Not to mention the dirty measuring cups and spoons and pans everywhere. I’d clean it up later.