by Nina Levine
I stand and walk to the edge of the roof. Staring out over the town, I exhale a long breath. When I left him this time, I wondered if I’d ever remove him from my soul. I know now I never will.
I’ve loved Mason for twenty years and I’ll love him for twenty more and beyond.
I’m drowning in him and there are moments I can’t breathe without him.
He’s what has gotten me through my marriage so far. Knowing that every day that passes is another day closer to his safety. But tonight’s revelations change everything. Now, there are going to be far too many days I can’t breathe properly. Mason is at risk. My husband hates him that much, and I shudder to think what kind of power a premiership brings with it will inspire Joe to do to Mason.
The sound of the door to the rooftop opening and then slamming closed causes me to squeeze my eyes closed.
Joe’s found me.
I steel myself.
“Mayfair. Fuck.”
My eyes fly open.
“What the fuck are you doing up here?” Mason demands, coming closer. “Your fucking husband is losing his shit downstairs because he can’t find you.”
I turn to him, my heart beating faster as I drink him in.
“Goddamn, you look good in a suit.” The words fall from my lips without thought before I can stop them.
He slows his pace, narrowing his eyes at me. “You’re drunk?”
A smile slips across my face. “Maybe a little.”
“Jesus.”
I stare at his neck tattoo peeking out from his white button shirt. The tattoo I can’t fully see but know off by heart because it’s my tattoo. Hearts, and stars, and wings, and Monopoly pieces, and a stiletto, and a rose with a banner across it all that says Mayfair. It spans the width of his neck and is the most beautiful tattoo I’ve ever seen. He got it three weeks before I smashed his heart to pieces.
I move towards him, unable to stop myself. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t respond to that, just watches me closely as I come to him. When I reach him, he says, “Which thing are you sorry for?” His words are bitter. “Or are you just apologising for causing us all a whole lot of fucking problems by not telling Hearst where you were going?”
I trace my gaze over his face, ignoring the acid flowing from him. God, I’ve missed him. In the kind of way I never imagined missing someone. When I meet his eyes again, I say, “You always read me perfectly. I wasn’t apologising for tonight. I was apologising for breaking your heart.”
His nostrils flare. “I don’t want your fucking apology.”
I nod. “I know, but I’m giving it to you anyway.”
“You’re drunk. You don’t even know what the fuck you’re saying.”
“No, I know exactly what I’m saying. And I know you won’t believe me, but I mean every word of it.”
I try to take another step closer to him, needing that, but I trip over my own damn foot.
Mason catches me, his expression darkening with anger. “Fucking hell, Chelsea.”
I reach out and touch his face, my whole body feeling the effect of that touch. “Please stop being so angry with me, Mason. It’s killing me. I did this all for you and will continue doing it all for you. I don’t care if I have to stay with him for the rest of my life; I’ll do it for you.”
He frowns at the same time the rooftop door opens again. Looking beyond Mason, I see my husband walking our way, a look of pure fury on his face.
Dropping my hand from Mason, I take a step away from him.
“I’ve got this from here,” Joe says to Mason, his words falling between them with the same kind of acid Mason left at my feet.
Mason looks at me one last time before leaving us. I don’t miss the confusion in his eyes, but mostly I see that hatred of his that I don’t think he’ll ever let go of.
Once we’re alone, Joe grips my bicep and yanks me to him. He’s a raging storm, and suddenly, I feel sober. “If you ever get drunk and do this at one of our functions again, I will make you regret it, Chelsea. Am I understood?”
I fight him off, pulling out of his hold. I will not fucking allow him to intimidate me again. “You’re perfectly understood, Joe. You’re a fucking asshole, but I’ve understood that about you for a little while now.”
His eyes are as hard as his voice when he growls, “Do not fucking test me tonight.”
“Are we done here?”
He forces out a harsh breath as he glances out at the night. Looking back at me, he says, “Go to bed. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Joe.”
“There’s a whole lot to discuss. Your new schedule for one.”
“I have no doubt my father has packed it full.”
A look passes through his eyes. “You think your father’s in charge here?”
My breathing slow as I stare at him.
“He hasn’t been in charge for a long time,” he says with more of that acid. “Your father’s involved in too much shit to be in charge. Those approval ratings you’re seeing now are thanks to me and Ronson spinning the fuck out of your father’s messes. We’ll get him elected again, but the bigger picture involves me and you. The future belongs to us, so you need to get yourself on board, and you need to do that soon, or so fucking help me God, I’ll find a way to make you get on board.”
I married the devil.
That’s the last thought I have as I rest my head on my pillow.
That and the fact I need to get my shit together so I can figure out a plan to outsmart the devil, because I’ll be damned if Joe Hearst is going to dictate how I live the rest of my life.
19
Gunnar
I don’t care if I have to stay with him for the rest of my life; I’ll do it for you.
What the fuck did she mean by that?
I spent half the fucking night thinking about my conversation with Chelsea on the roof, and I’m no closer to figuring this shit out. She apologised to me for breaking my heart and I told her I didn’t want her fucking apology. I don’t. I fucking want her even though I fucking hate that I do. But I sure as fuck don’t want that apology. And then she told me she’s done this all for me and will continue doing it for me, staying with him for life if she has to.
I should take it for the drunk talk it was.
I should forget every word she said.
I should not fucking want to know what the hell she meant by it all.
But I want to know, and I want to fucking know now.
“Where are you going in such a fucking rush?” Griff asks as I stride towards the door of our hotel room early the next morning.
“Out.” I keep moving.
“Gunnar,” he says, and something I hear in his voice stops me. “Don’t do something you’ll regret, brother.”
Griff saw me come back from the roof last night. He saw the filthy mood I was in. The same filthy mood I’ve been in all week. He doesn’t miss a fucking beat; he knows what’s up.
I look back at him. “What time are we needed this morning?” I’m not getting into this with him.
He shakes his head and mutters, “Fuck,” before giving me the information I’m looking for. “Hearst has meetings all morning in the hotel. His guys are with him for them. We’re free until lunch.”
“I’ll be back in time for that.”
I exit the room without another word and reach for my phone. I then do something I swore I’d never fucking do again; I send Chelsea a text.
Me: We need to talk. Now. Where are you?
When I don’t get a reply within a few minutes, I send her another one.
Me: Tell me where you are or I’ll make it clear to everyone I need to know where you are.
The dots go up and down as she types a reply. She takes her sweet fucking time to type the short message she sends back.
Chelsea: In the gym.
Me: Don’t move. I’m on my way.
One of Hearst’s security guys is standing outside th
e gym when I get there. He lifts his chin at me as I enter; he must think Hearst sent me.
It’s early, just before 6:30 a.m. and she’s the only one in the gym. On the treadmill.
She looks at me the instant I step through the door. Stopping the treadmill, she gets off it and meets me halfway.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice filled with uneasiness.
“You don’t seem happy to see me, Mayfair. Where’s the girl who’s sorry for breaking my heart?”
Regret flashes in her eyes, and I fucking hate how that makes me feel. I fucking knew she didn’t mean a word of what she said last night. When the fuck will I learn with this woman?
“I was drunk last night, Mason,” she starts, and I cut her the fuck off.
“Yeah, you were. But you know what? As much as I’m standing here telling myself I should have known better than to believe you, I did fucking believe you. And I want to know what the hell’s going on.”
Her eyes drop to the floor and I feel the bullshit before I hear it. “I am sorry for breaking your heart, but whatever else I said to you—”
I snake an arm around her waist and take her with me as I move us to the wall. Caging her in, I say, “Don’t fucking act like you don’t remember what you said. You fucking do. I see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice. You’re not a fucking liar, Chelsea. Don’t start that shit with me now. Give me the truth. What did you mean when you said you’ll stay with him for the rest of your life for me?”
Her eyes search mine frantically. “You caught me in a bad moment, that’s all.”
“What bad moment?”
“Joe and I have been fighting,” she starts and then stops herself. She’s looking at me like she’s weighing what to tell me.
“And what’s that got to do with me? What the fuck are you doing for me?”
“I was just referring to the fact I agreed to marry him so Dad would help you after you were arrested.”
“Bull-fucking-shit. Stop fucking lying.”
Her eyes flare with the fight she’s about to unleash. “I’m not fucking lying, Mason.”
I bend my face down closer to hers so I can look directly into her eyes. “You might not be lying, but you’re fucking keeping something from me. I shouldn’t expect any different from you, though. I’m always the last fucking one to know, aren’t I?”
More of that fight flashes in her eyes, right before she presses her hands to my chest and attempts to push me away. I don’t budge, though. I stay right the fuck where I am and keep my eyes firmly on hers. I fucking hate discussing her marriage. Hate thinking of her with that asshole. But this is a long-overdue conversation and we’re fucking having it.
“Let me go,” she says, still pushing against me.
I keep blocking her. “We’re not finished talking.”
“We are. Trust me, we fucking are.”
Fuck I love her fight, even when I hate the reason for it.
“Tell me about it,” I demand.
She frowns. “About what?”
“About your fucking marriage.”
Her breathing slows as she stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You don’t want to know about it,” she says softly.
“You’re fucking right about that, but humour me. Tell me why you married that prick.”
“Mason,” she breathes, gripping my shirt. “No, don’t do this.”
I bring my arms up to rest against the wall either side of her head and lean my face down close to hers again. Every fucking cell in my body is wired. Anger, jealousy, hate. It’s all in there, a fucking mix of straight-up danger. “Fucking. Tell. Me.”
Her eyes widen. Her breathing picks up. Those breaths of hers are coming in a panic now. We’re finally fucking getting somewhere.
Still gripping my shirt, she says, “You know I married him so that Dad would help you.”
“And you fucking know that’s not a conversation we ever had.”
“We did have that conversation. I told you it was the only solution after you were arrested.”
“Yeah, you told me that and I told you I’d find another way. And then next fucking thing, I’m hearing about your engagement on the fucking news. We didn’t fucking have that conversation. I would have fucking liked for you to have told me.”
She swallows hard. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
“So what was the agreement when you married him?”
“For you?”
“For me, for you, for fucking everything.”
“Dad agreed to help keep you out of prison. I agreed to stay married to Joe for as long as Dad is premier.”
“And for as long as Hearst is premier?”
Her eyes plead with me to end this conversation as her hands shift from gripping my shirt to gripping my chest. “Yes.”
I don’t know if it’s the fact her hands are on me now, curving over my muscles, or if it’s the way she just breathed out that one word that tells me just how fucking long she’s bound to Hearst for that does it, but I’m fucking pissed off. She’s telling me this is all arranged; she has her hands on me like she used to; she’s looking at me like she fucking cares about me; and yet every fucking time I see them together, she’s doing the same fucking things with him. Hands on him, eyes on him, looking at him like she fucking loves him.
But then there’s that one part of my heart and brain that stumbles over the fact she did this for me.
“Fuck.” I drop my arms and step back. I’m all fucked up over her and can’t think straight.
“Mason, you need to go.”
I hate the urgency in her voice because I know exactly where it fucking comes from. She’s worried Hearst will find us. She’s fucking telling me to leave because of her husband.
I close the distance between us again and take hold of her hip with one hand while sliding the other one through her hair. Angling her head back, I growl, “I’m not fucking going anywhere, Mayfair. We’re not finished yet.”
She curls her hand around my forearm as I watch desire come to life in her eyes.
Fuck, it’s always like this for us.
Fucking always.
I’m hard as fuck for her, too.
And I know I’m about to make another bad choice.
But fuck me, I can’t help myself.
I never can with her.
The moan that escapes her lips as I bring mine down onto them hits me fucking everywhere. My dick, my gut, my heart.
I kiss her with the full force of every emotion I’m feeling.
I hold nothing back.
The love, the hate, the jealousy; it’s all there, and it’s all leading us into dangerous fucking territory.
I try like fuck not to put my hands all over her body, but that was never going to happen. The second my brain decided it was a good idea to kiss her was the second everything else was decided. Chelsea still owns my fucking heart, and along with that, she owns every part of my body. And right now, my body wants what it fucking needs. What it’s been starved of for months, because even though I fucked her a month ago, that didn’t even come close to what I need.
I tear her tank top off and then her bra before bringing my hands and mouth to her tits. She threads her fingers through my hair, gripping it hard while I suck and bite.
“Oh God, yes,” she moans.
Looking up at her, I demand, “Tell me you’ve fucking missed this.”
Still with her fingers in my hair, she says, “I’ve missed this.”
Fuck.
Those three words send me over the edge.
If I ever had any shot at walking away from her, it’s gone now.
I move my hands to her hips while I lay a trail of kisses down her stomach. Her tights are the next to go, and then I’m on my fucking knees with my hands on her ass and my nose pressed to her cunt.
Fucking hell, I’m desperate for her.
I pull her panties down. Slowly. Fuck knows how I control myself, because I want them the fuck off, but I al
so want to taste this moment before tasting her.
If I never have her again, I want to fucking remember this.
She steps out of them and I part her legs. Placing my hands on the front of her thighs, I slowly run them up her legs while my eyes find hers. Keeping our gazes locked, I dip my face closer and run my tongue over her clit, loving the fuck out of the way she tilts her cunt towards me.
Still with my eyes on her, I slide my tongue inside her.
Jesus fuck.
I’ve fucking missed her.
Her taste is locked in my memory, but being deprived of it has driven me crazy. A memory only goes so far. A man needs to get his fill and I intend to get my fucking fill today.
She watches with heated eyes as I fuck her with my tongue. When I add my fingers, her eyes flutter closed and she moans. I fucking love that sound, and it drives me to work her harder and deeper.
“Oh God. Fuck,” she says, her hands hitting the wall beside her as she moves with the pleasure I’m giving her.
Her cunt pulses with her orgasm and fuck if that doesn’t push my dick over the fucking edge of needing inside her.
Standing, I reach for my belt, but Chelsea’s hands are more frantic than mine and have my belt and jeans undone in a few seconds. Curling her hand around my neck, she pulls my mouth to hers at the same time she hooks her leg around my body and lifts herself into my arms.
Our bodies move without us even having to think about it. Like magnets made for each other. I’ve never had this with anyone else and fuck it if I never fucking want it with anyone else. This woman in my arms is the only woman I ever want there. Proof I’m hell-bent on my own fucking destruction.
I thrust inside her, growling with satisfaction as her cunt and arms and legs clench around me.
Pulling out, I meet her gaze and hold it while slamming inside her again.
“Fuck,” she says, tightening her arms around me.
“You want it like that?”
“God, yes.” Her fingers dig into me.
I don’t wait a second longer. I fuck her exactly how we both want it.
We’re skin on skin.
Need on need.
A mess of danger, and trouble, and desperate desire that’s only going to end in more fucking pain.