She glanced over at me finally and offered a small smile. “Of course. I’m totally fine. And more importantly, I’m completely over Harvey. In fact, it’s a good thing that we broke it off before anything really started.”
She turned back to her desk like that was that.
I frowned. I knew that she was probably still a little sore over the whole thing. Whether they wanted to admit it or not, Courtney had really connected to Trent—she just hadn’t realized it was him at the time.
I felt bad for my friend, but there was nothing for it. I left the wound alone in the hopes that it would heal properly.
“Yeah, okay. Well, I’ll be working on the manuscript.”
She nodded. “I’ll make sure your schedule’s cleared.”
I disappeared back into my office, then settled behind my desk for the best damn book I’d read in a while. I hoped so anyway.
I pulled the papers to me, getting comfortable in my chair, ready and willing to be amazed even as I uncapped my favorite red pen. For the next three hours, I was wrapped up in Harvey’s work. The twists, the turns. He had a few grammatical things that I would have a proofreader fix later on, and I picked up on a couple of plot contradictions, but for the most part, the story flowed like a river. Smooth on the surface, but speeding along beneath.
But as I read, I couldn’t help but notice something. A very specific character. One that almost seemed like maybe she’d been added on about halfway in…
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I stopped reading immediately and burst out of my office. A second later I was standing in front of Courtney’s desk, slapping the manuscript down in front of her.
She jumped a little, startled. “Whoa, Marnie! What’s going on?”
“You need to read this.”
Her eyebrows rose in question. “What?”
“This. You need to read it. Just trust me.”
She was clearly confused, but the best way to explain it—and to convince her of the truth—was to have her read it for herself. It was the only way she was going to believe it.
“O-kay,” she answered, carefully pulling the manuscript toward her.
For the next few hours, I waited. Waited for her to read what I had. About the queen. The queen of all good women, the changer and stealer of hearts, and the only thing in the world who could reform a man who had lost his way. It was beautiful, poetic, and highly personal. Because it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the main character was Harvey himself.
I’ve only seen a fleeting glimpse of her glory, her wonder, but I will never go a night without seeing her in my dreams. I have been blessed with that much at least. My only regret in life is that I wasn’t able to hold on to that beauty, that magic in real life.
It wasn’t the book I’d been expecting. It was hugely different from his other books. But it was beautiful and poetic, and most importantly, it had been written for Courtney. That much I was sure of.
I knew when Courtney was finished, because there were tears in her eyes. She was working hard to hold them back, but she couldn’t. She set the manuscript down, and I took it gently off her desk.
“You should go. Make it an early day,” I told her softly.
“But…”
I shook my head. “Go. You need to talk to him.”
She didn’t say anything else. She just grabbed her things and headed to the elevator. It wasn’t until the doors were closing on her that she called out a thank-you.
I smiled and hoped that she figured out what kind of happy ending she wanted and whether she could have it with Trent.
Chapter Nineteen
Courtney
My heart was pounding as I got out of my car. I’d left it parked along the side of the road, not caring about tickets or whose spot I might have filched. I didn’t care. I only had one thing on my mind: Trent Harvey.
I hurried up the sidewalk to his house and pounded on the door. I was so worked up, so excited and nervous and everything else, that my hands were shaking. But I was grateful to be here. All I wanted now was a chance.
It took a moment before the door opened, but when it did, I didn’t waste a beat. “Did you really mean what you wrote?” I blurted ineloquently, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a hurried rush. I wanted the answers now. I needed to know what he was really feeling before I could admit what I was feeling.
For a moment, he was silent. He stared at me as though he were drinking me in, a man who hadn’t seen beauty in years and was suddenly taken to the streets of Paris. I didn’t know that I deserved that kind of reverence, but I loved it just the same.
“Every word of it,” he told me fiercely.
I felt tears prick at my eyes again. I hadn’t been willing to admit how much I really wanted him to say that until he was standing right here in front of me saying it. “Why?”
His full lips pulled up into a small smile. “Because it was what I felt, what I do feel.” He stepped closer to me, actually coming outside so that we were both standing on his stoop. His large hands went to my arms, gripping them gently. “You’re my muse, Courtney. The inspiration I needed to finish the manuscript. I was starved for it, but there you were all along. I just had to find you.”
I felt my mouth begin to pull up into a smile. “Really?”
He nodded, his eyes searching mine. “And I wish… fuck, I wish I hadn’t messed this all up from day one, but I can’t change that. All I can do is spend the rest of my life trying to fix it. If you’ll let me.”
I felt a laugh bubble up in my throat, my mouth splitting into a grin that had to take up my entire face. Before he could be hurt by my laughter, however, I reached for his face, cupping his cheeks between my hands. “Don’t be so dramatic,” I told him. And then I kissed him.
I kissed him like I meant it, like I needed it. Because it really felt like I did.
His lips were full and hot against mine. When our lips parted, he tasted a little like vanilla, just like our first kiss. His hands found their way to my waist, tentative, as though afraid I might change my mind at any moment.
But I wasn’t going to change my mind. This was what I wanted.
I broke the kiss only so I could look up at him and ask, “Wanna go inside?”
He grinned at me, then nodded. I expected to follow him in, but instead I was surprised when he scooped me up into his arms and carried me off.
I squealed and laughed at him as he carried me into the house, kicking the door closed behind him. He carried me up the stairs to the room I had to presume was his. He threw me down on the bed, grinning as he crawled over the bed on top of me. He propped himself up on his elbows, his legs tangled up in mine, and just looked at me.
“You are all I want. I love you, Courtney Hughes. You are the only one for me.”
I grinned cheekily at him even as I blushed profusely. I leaned up and placed my lips against his again, this time in a soft, sweet kiss. Lying back, I said, “I don’t know about all this muse and eternal love stuff, but… but I feel something for you. Something real.”
His smile was blinding. “Does that mean you’ll be sticking around?”
I nodded. “Yeah, for now. Just don’t fuck it up, okay?” I warned him, poking at his chest, which was hard beneath my finger.
He laughed. “Or what?” he challenged, his voice dropping.
“Or there’ll be hell to pay. I am not to be fucked with.”
“Noted. And still definitely worth the risk.”
He kissed me again. And again. And again.
With each kiss I reminded myself to be brave. To give him a chance. He was a good man who had done stupid things in the past. That was everyone in the entire universe.
I was convinced that he meant what he wrote and what he’d said to me. The rest we’d have to work out as we went.
Virgin’s Desire (Bonus)
Kayla C. Oliver
Chapter One
Camille
I’m shaking. I’m so mad, so hurt.
“What are you trying to say?” I ask Jackson, studying his chocolate brown eyes like he’s going to say something that’ll change my life.
He’s calm as he runs a hand through his douchebag haircut. He’s wearing those skinny jeans I hate and those glasses I know he only wears to look cool. “You’re an ice queen,” he says, blowing his breath out like he’s vaping on the back patio.
“Because I won’t have sex with you?” He’s got me all wrong. He has to. I’m not an ice queen. I’m not a prude. Am I?
“Well, yeah. And because you won’t do fun shit with me,” he says, his fingers finding his phone screen where it sits on the table in front of him. The party invite is there. He’d asked me. I’d turned him down, but not because I don’t want to have fun.
Because I’m studying for finals.
Or… I was studying for finals.
Something snaps in my mind. I was taught to be this. To be perfect. To be pretty. To be sweet. To be loveable. I was top of my high school class. I studied hard, I worked at making sure my hair was pretty, my skin was flawless, and my clothes were fashionable, but not too flashy.
I didn’t overdo it. I didn’t show off. I was perfect.
“So you’re breaking up with me because I won’t party with you or put out?” I ask, finalizing it all in my head. Even as I want to scream and cry, I feel a steely fist closing around those emotions. Before he can answer, I seal my fate. “Fuck you, Jackson. Fuck you and your stupid haircut. Fuck you and your hipster bullshit. You’re not sensitive, or deep. You’re just a stupid prick who only wants to get laid.”
With that, I’m on my feet and out the door of his shitty apartment that I’d tried to convince myself was charming.
Tears fill my eyes, but I blink them back. I had worked hard on my makeup. It’s not worth ruining it for him. I head towards home, feeling pain and fury eating at my stomach lining like so much bile. And a plan forms.
I’m not going to class.
I’m tired of being perfect. I’m tired of trying to live for other people. I’m tired of doing what I’m supposed to do. I’m tired of being perfect.
As I open the door to my apartment, I pull off my shirt and let it drop to the floor. My skirt follows. In only my pretty lavender underwear, I stop before my full length mirror. My best friend, Amber, had left a note written in red lipstick on the mirror.
Camille, I love you! Good luck on your finals!
Boy is she going to be surprised.
They’re all going to be surprised. With sure hands, I grab that red dress that’s much too short. Taking off my cute underwear, I pull on the dress with nothing underneath.
I’m a prude, huh?
My hands make quick work of my makeup, darkening the eyeliner and making my lips a deeper red. My blue eyes look wild, troubled, and beautiful. But not perfect.
Pulling my black hair free of the bun I’d wound it up in, I let it tumble free. The thick locks are heavy and have just a hint of a natural curl at the ends. With my short dress, I look… sexy. Naughty.
Not like an ice queen.
I stand before the house. It’s more like a castle. No, more modern than a castle. More like a modern mansion. I know the owner by reputation alone. Dakin Dark is the son of an oil tycoon, but he’s made himself. With his own business in real estate, he’s built an empire that rivals his father’s.
And he is every inch the bad boy his name implies. The rumor mill whispers that he loves and leaves ladies, never having the same one twice. Perfect.
This is where the party is. Where Jackson will be. But he won’t be expecting me.
I walk in the door and a drink is instantly thrust into my hand by a guy looking me up and down like I’m a tasty treat he’s been craving. Perfect Camille doesn’t drink. She knows it kills brain cells and lowers inhibitions.
But I’m done being perfect.
I take the shot and cover my mouth as the burn ignites my nose, throat, and belly like I’ve consumed liquid fire.
“All right,” the guy says, nodding at me. I smile and push into the crowded room. All around people sit, talking, smoking, and drinking. There are several pool tables set up and I see Jackson on the other side of the room.
His eyes are on me, but I ignore him and take another shot. This guy doesn’t smile at me. No, he looks at me like he’d love nothing more than to rip me apart. But he passes me another drink and I take it, trying not to cough at the sting.
Warmth hits me first, and I know I’ve had too much, too fast.
But it feels… good.
Another guy grabs my hand and spins me like we’re in a ballroom. “You’re good on your feet,” he says, pulling me close to whisper in my ear.
“Not just on my feet,” I whisper, and his eyes narrow.
Someone else walks up and I face the new stranger. Why didn’t I do this before? These guys are incredible looking, so damn sexy, and not like the stupid, immature Jackson. They seem like they might actually know a thing or two about women.
The warmth becomes a giddy sense as music begins to rumble the floor and an AC-DC song comes on. I find myself on the table, but how I got there is hazy. But all eyes are on me, and I know my dress is too short.
But there’s Jackson, watching me with a look I’ve never seen in his eyes before.
Fuck him.
The music beckons, and I dance, feeling so very sexy, so incredible, so imperfect.
Chapter Two
Dakin
My phone lights up and I see the video text and open it. I know of the beauty dancing on the table, but I’ve never seen her like this. Another text follows it.
She’s 18.
I’m quick to respond. Thanks, Jake.
Jake’s always had my back. He knows that if word gets out that I’ve got a drunk girl who’s too young to drink, things will get ugly. And while I could easily pay off whatever officer who drops by, I don’t want that kind of thing on my head.
I’m quick to get to my feet and take the stairs two and three at a time. In the main room, I scan and see her still dancing on the table. I can see her legs clear up to her hips, and when she grabs the little skirt to swish it a little bit, I catch a glimpse of her cute, shaved little pussy. It’s a shock, but I shove away the thought. My cock pulses, and I wrap up in steely control.
I’m not controlled by my body.
On the other side of the room, I see him. Jackson, watching Camille. Beyond the obvious lust in his gaze, I see something darker. Murder. I’ve never liked the little fuckwit, hipster wannabe. He’s one of those guys who tries to pretend to be hard while being a little bitch.
With quick strides, I walk up to the pool table and press my shoulder to Camille’s thighs. With one hand around the back of her legs, I pull her off the table. She folds over my shoulder and I carry her like a caveman back toward the stairs and up to my cave.
She should know better.
As I walk, she’s raining blows on my back and trying to kick her legs. But with her bent over me like this, she’s unable to get leverage, and her pitiful hits aren’t enough to actually hurt me. I walk up the stairs with her. She’s such a tiny thing; I don’t even start breathing heavy.
In my room, I drop her on the bed, then internally curse myself. I never bring girls to my room. What am I thinking?
But she looks up at me with those big, blue eyes, her face white as a sheet. “How dare you,” she whispers, her beautiful eyes welling up with tears that only seem to fuel her anger. “If you touch me, I’ll scream--”
“I’m not going to touch you, princess,” I say, locking the door behind me. She looks so delicious on my bed. There’s an innocence to her as she sits, thighs pressed together, one foot drawn up a bit more than the other, her ankles shoulder width apart.
But I’m not looking up her skirt. I’m looking into those incredible blue eyes, thinking about how this girl isn’t the perfect Camille I remember from the days my sister was in high school. What happened to her to destroy he
r so thoroughly?
“I’m not drunk,” she says, as if suddenly certain that’s what I’m upset about.
She’s partially right. “But you were drinking,” I say, and her incredible eyes fill with shame.
“I was. But I’m not drunk.” She seems focused on that one little detail like it can save her. “I was kind of hoping to see you,” she says, a shy note in her soft voice.
Instantly, my hackles rise. Why? Why did she want to see me? We know each other in passing, and only because my younger sister and she were somewhat friends. Not close friends. Not good friends. Just… kind of friends. I don’t pretend to understand the minefield woman call friendship. It’s not like the friendships I’ve come to enjoy over the years. Jake and I would take bullets for one another. Women, though, seem more likely to shoot one another over an offhanded comment.
She’s watching me, as if looking for some acknowledgement to her comment. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction.
But she doesn’t seem to need it.
“You’re the perfect guy to be the next notch in my belt,” she says, and I feel humor rising within. But I keep it carefully locked away. I’m interested in where she’s going with this because I know for a fact she’s a virgin.
Thanks to that hipster shithead, Jackson.
But she keeps talking. “You’re so sexy, and I hear big,” her eyes drop to my cock, “things about you.” She licks her lips and I feel the urge to push her down and show her she’s playing with fire.
But I don’t. She’s been drinking. I don’t fuck drunk virgins, no matter how hard they try to convince me they’re not really drunk.
I’m not a fucking rapist. Consent requires two clear headed, straight thinking adults. I’m not a god damned saint, but I’m not that kind of monster, either.
My phone chimes and I take it out of my pocket.
Dared to Love (The Billionaire Parker Brothers Book 3) Page 37