His Pawn

by Emily Snow

  She’s mine until the end of the semester.

  Our arrangement is strictly between the two of us and my Manhattan accountant.

  Love is a four-letter word that will have no room in our agreement, and most importantly, I’m a selfish prick who won’t share her under any circumstances. I’ve never played well with others, and I’m not about to start doing so now.

  When we reached the parking lot in front of her building, she had sat beside me in the BMW, with those long legs crossed at the ankle, staring blankly ahead.

  “What happens next?” she had finally asked, turning down the Godsmack song playing on a random satellite station I chose, and I laughed.

  “I go to New York for Christmas.”

  “No, I mean ... with what I just agreed to do with you. What do we do now? How often will we, you know, do it?’”

  As often as I want, I had thought.

  “I’ll call you,” I’d told her, trailing a finger up the inside of her thigh. She had shivered, flicked her pink tongue over her lips and carved her hand through her loose black hair. My hand had frozen against her creamy skin because I was so desperate to get my fingers in that hair. “Now get out, dove, before I put this car in reverse, with you in it, and spend the rest of the night doing what I planned. Learning exactly what it is that makes you scream.”

  “I get it!” She gasped and grabbed my hand, squeezing my fingers before I could touch her like I desired. “Do you get off doing this to me?”

  “Not nearly as much as I will when it’s my tongue making your cunt quiver and not just spoken promises. Goodnight, Elle.”

  In all honesty, I had no plan to see her again until I was good and ready—after I came back from the inevitable trip to New York where I pretend to give a fuck about my family at some fundraiser my mother saw fit to include my name in. Fate had bent me over when I agreed to meet Hannah Amherst, an old bang buddy of mine, Hannah’s words, not mine, from boarding school. She’s made a detour in D.C. before she jets off to Spain with her newest husband. He’s twice our age, and I’ve been mentally referring to him as The Poor Shit, T.P.S., since I forgot his actual name seconds after he was introduced.

  “Why so distracted, Graham?” Hannah’s silky voice cuts through my thoughts. Curving her red lips into a smile, she leans against the table, and her tits nearly fall out of her slinky red top. The Poor Shit barely notices. “You’ve been a giant stick in the mud since we met up this morning," she pouts.

  A giant stick in the mud. She must have picked that one up from T.P.S.

  “Work problems,” I respond coolly, feeling my cock throb at the scent of Elle’s fruity scented perfume. Hannah is invisible to me when my attention follows the proper Ms. Courtney sashaying past our table with her blue eyes glued to the floor, and her ass teasing me under more layers of clothes than Hannah probably wears in a week.

  That’s the first thing I’m going to do with Elle. Peel away some of those layers. Get to the freak I know is somewhere underneath it all.

  “Graham?” Hannah’s voice is worried. Maybe by now, she’s figured out that I have no intention of going with her to her hotel, even if husband number two—or is he number three?—doesn’t give a fuck.

  “Excuse me,” I tell her, earning a sulky look that, once again, brings no emotion out of The Poor Shit.

  She is a perfect reminder of why I’ll never get married. Why I’ll never let another woman plunge her fucking claws into my heart again. Too much risk. Too many headaches. And too many chances to ruin everything.

  “Hurry back,” she drawls, before concentrating on T.P.S. She says something that makes him chuckle and pet her arm. Knowing her, she probably told him to pop a Viagra because she’s planning to fuck me right in front of him while he jerks off.

  Following Elle’s scent, I enter the pink-decorated bathroom right behind her. Mouth hanging open, she whirls away from the sink to look at me like my dick is already hanging out.

  “What the hell are you doing in here? You said you’d be in New York by now,” she whispers accusingly as I lock the door behind me. When I face her, her arms are crossed over her shapeless sweater, and she’s burning a hole into my forehead with her glare. “I’m starting to think you put a GPS on me or something.”

  I laugh. “On the contrary, Elle. I honestly had no plans to see you until I got back from New York. Believe me, I didn’t wake up this morning, realize that all I wanted or needed was Eleanor Courtney, and decide to hunt you down.”

  Letting her arms fall to her sides, she stalks toward me. With her black hair flying around her face, and her trembling lips, I decide she’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. “If I weren’t all you wanted or needed, Senator"—She jabs her finger to my chest, and I catch her hand in mine—"Then why would you offer so much money to get me in your bed for the next five months? Seems like you're the one piling on the bull today.”

  “You forgot to say discreetly in my bed.” I wrench her to me and flare my hands over the curve of her hips, both hating the way she hides her delectable body and feeling relieved that no other man knows the curves and angles buried beneath her hideous sweater, dress, and stockings. She has a body made for lingerie, lace, and silk. Material that’s easy to rip through. “I never said I didn’t want you. Obviously, I do. Just not today. But if you must know why I’m here, an old friend came to town, and I stuck around to see her before she goes to Barcelona.”

  Elle stiffens in my arm, and when I glance down into her enormous blue eyes, I can’t help but grin at the flash of anger. Realizing her mistake, she turns her face to the side. “Don’t you need to get back to ... your old friend?”

  “Say that again, beautiful. Next time with a bit more ... jealousy.”

  A strangled sound leaps from the back of her throat. “God, you’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you? I’m not jealous, by the way, I just think it’s rude you’re in here when she’s out there.”

  “Sure you’re not jealous. But she’s also not what you think.” I kiss her throat, and she sighs. I slide my hand between her thighs, rubbing my fingers over the slick reward her aggravating tights are obstructing. She drinks in a ragged breath. When I trace the column of her throat again, this time with my tongue, she exhales and swallows hard. “You’re going to be a greedy one, and I wonder if your pussy will be just as selfish.”

  “You have such a nasty mouth,” she seethes, but she clamps her legs around my hand. “When my five months with you is up, I’ll—”

  I kiss her delicate chin. “Beg for more. You’ll beg for more, Elle.”

  And then she’ll regret me all over again when I ruin her to ruin her father. Something cold freezes my chest at the thought of it, but I swallow that shit down. Remind myself that Eleanor Courtney is just a walking, talking piece of ass.

  It still doesn’t sit right, so I make a resolution to stay far away from Vero and her judgment for a while. It must be getting to me.

  I tilt Elle's mouth to mine, and she clenches her thighs again. Fuck, I need to be inside her already, not feeling her up in the middle of a bathroom. “Have you thought of me since we parted?”

  “No, not at all.” She gasps when I tear a hole in the center of her stockings, and my fingers find the soft cotton beneath it. The heat emanating from her is enough to shatter the control of any man. “Oh my God, Graham!”

  “No thoughts at all, Ms. Courtney?” Rubbing a knuckle over her slit through her panties, I watch her face, waiting until her eyes are squeezed shut to shove the cotton aside and spread her apart. “Jesus, Elle, you’re already dripping. Did you get wet just seeing me out there? Is that where we are now? Blind turn-ons?”

  She moans, bowing her body against mine. “What are you doing?” she demands, as I back her against the wall. She bucks her hips and releases a throaty moan that I feel, deep in my gut. “Why are you doing this here?”

  “Hands over your head,” I order, and to my satisfaction—my cock’s satisfaction—she lifts her arms up, re
sting them against the wall with her palms turned outward. “Keep them there. Don’t move. Just feel.”

  “We’re really doing this?” she whispers.

  “Should I stop?” I thrust two fingers deep into her pussy. She’s tight—tighter than I ever imagined—and all I can think of is replacing my hand with my cock and taking her right here on the marble floor. “Should I go back to lunch and pretend we never saw each other?”

  “Yes,” she pants, her hips rhythmically rocking against me. And then she lets out a cry when I start to pull away. “No!”

  I flick my thumb over her swollen clit, and her tongue darts out to touch her lips. She licks them again and again. “You’re going to drive me crazy." I stop her next distracting round of tongue play with my mouth, nibbling on her bottom lip. "And you taste like blackberries. Why am I not surprised?"

  There’s a knock at the door, someone jiggling the knob, and her eyes fly open. “We can’t do this,” she whispers frantically. “We shouldn’t do this!”

  “Save your can’ts and shouldn’ts for confession. We already are doing this.”

  “I’m not even Catholic,” she retorts furiously.

  “Eleanor?” the voice on the other side of the door calls. Her mother. The bastard’s wife. “Eleanor, is everything all right?”

  “If you don’t want her to hear you scream, I suggest you have her leave.”

  “I’m okay!” Elle shouts, the desperate, husky sound making me want her on her knees right now with my dick filling her mouth. Instead, I guide her legs farther apart, finish ripping the center of her tights, and pound my fingers harder. “I’m fine, Mom. Just a little ... under the weather.” Never moving her hands from above her head, she bites down hard on my shoulder, and I grasp her ass.

  When she lets out a cry into my shirt, I stroke her clit harder, grinding my thumb, and narrow my eyes in warning. "I wasn't kidding, Elle. Get rid of her."

  “Just go sit down, okay?" she calls out to her mother. "I’ll be out in a minute or two.”

  When her mom doesn’t knock again, I brush my lips against her ear. “Are you that close?” I inhale her intoxicating scent, blackberries and vanilla, responding to it by arching my fingers inside her and hitting a spot that makes her body do wondrous, delicious things. Her full breasts press so close to my chest, I feel her nipples pebble. “A minute or two?”

  But she doesn’t even last that long. Watching the look in her eyes as she convulses around my fingers is something I won’t forget—not even after we’re through. For all the shit she talks, right now Eleanor Courtney trusts me. Part of me would prefer any other emotion than that one.

  She drops her head against my chest, catching her breath.

  “Did you have to do that here?” She shudders when I drag my fingers from her pussy and sweep the other from her ass to her hip. I want more, crave her wet body, but for this reward, I’ll be patient. “Graham?” Her voice soft and tentative.

  “Yes,” I reply as her arms lower from above her head, falling limply over my shoulders. She’s too fucking warm. Too soft. “I did have to do it. I’ve already told you, I want to possess you.”

  And then, I’ll break you.

  ELEVEN

  ELLE

  “Stop shaking or you’ll give yourself away when you go back out there and face your mother,” Graham warns. He backs away from me gradually, leaving me shuddering against the Parisian pink wallpaper.

  Damn him for doing this to me, and piss on me for letting him. What’s gotten into me? Graham Delaney crooks his talented finger at me, and I’m hitting the big O in a ladies’ bathroom? “I can’t stop shaking.”

  “Try harder. Remember what we agreed about being inconspicuous?”

  “Yeah, well that sort of flew out the window when you followed me in here and shoved your hand in my underwear.”

  He adjusts my clothes—turning it into a sexy romp all its own when he kneels in front of me to drag his strong fingers up my tights, stopping to trace the tear in the center. Since it’s impossible to speak, I simply hold my breath, as he hikes up the hem of my dress.

  “When you go back out there...” Looking me in the eye, he kisses one of my thighs, then the other. I shudder, but he continues, “When you’re sitting there, with your blackberry drink and eating your dainty fucking salad...” His tongue darts out, and he licks me long and hard, tasting his handiwork. His tongue is a curse, and I dig my fingers in his dark hair as he hungrily laps at my sex for several more seconds before plucking my panties back in place. “When you’re doing all that, I want you to think of me. Sitting across the room from you with this in my pocket.”

  Without warning, he rips a piece of my ruined tights. Pulling my dress back down, he stands and shoves the material deep into his pocket.

  “Tearing them wasn’t enough for you?” I demand, and he presses my body up against his hard chest.

  Gathering my string of black pearls in his hand, he shakes his head. Watching him, feeling his body heat crash into mine, knowing that the lips working into a smile had just tasted me, I feel drunk. And it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the margarita. “And Elle?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When you’re home tonight, and I’m still fucking your head? I want to hear you come.”

  “Phone sex?” I whisper, and he grins cockily, moving his head from side to side.

  “I want to hear it whenever I’d like.”

  “You want to hear me get off on your voicemail?” When he nods, I lick my lips, and his irises darken. “How do you know it’ll be real? How do you know I won’t be faking it?”

  Dropping my pearls, he gives my ass a firm pump. It’s possessive, his touch, and it leaves me dizzy. “I’ve heard you. I’ve felt you. And when the time is right, I’ll fucking taste you again, too. I’ll know if it’s real. Now, run along, Ms. Courtney, before I decide to make it real right here and now and shock this entire city.”

  But he has too much control for that. That much was obvious when he hadn’t tried to sleep with me the night I agreed to be his. And just now, when he had me pinned against the wall with his long fingers driving into my body. I’d felt him. Felt his erection. Felt his hammering heartbeat. Felt the lust radiating off him.

  And now, for the second time, he’s sending me away.

  “I’m guessing you’ll still call me when you’re ready?”

  “As long as we don’t run into each other again. Apparently, D.C. is a very small town.”

  Then, giving me one last look that undresses me, he drops his hand from my ass and tells me to enjoy my lunch.

  Right before I open the door, he gives me a request that makes my throat go dry. “Keep the tights, Elle.”

  “Okay, so let me get this straight,” Blake says to me later that night while we talk during my bath. “You hooked up with some guy in a bathroom? Not just any bathroom, but at Monroe’s? While the queen of the Resting Bitch Face was in the place? You brave, amazing girl.”

  For the second or third time since I foolishly told her the bare minimum of what had happened this afternoon, I repeat, “Yes. Can we talk about something else? Like Boston or your crazy grandma or anything?”

  “Um, hell to the no.” She squeals into the phone, and I almost drop my phone in the bathtub. “Holy crap, Elle, I didn’t know you had it in you! So spill it, bitch, who is he? Why’ve you been hiding him from me? Where did you meet him?” She squeals again, but this time I have a firm, if not slightly soapy, grip on the phone. “God, I knew I should’ve called your ass sooner!”

  I squeeze my eyes closed. “He’s nobody special.”

  I’ve been telling myself that since lunch ended and I said goodbye to Zach and my mother, shaking violently when Graham’s dark eyes met mine over my brother’s shoulder as we hugged. He is nobody special, I thought, trying to force steel into my glare. He is a means to an end and nothing else.

  Like he’d guessed precisely what I was thinking, he’d tilted his head so that his top-heavy
“friend” and the other man couldn’t see what he was saying as he shoved his hand in his pocket and mouthed, “Mine.”

  So, as soon as I was free of the restaurant and Graham’s predatory stare, I’d traded in my dress and ripped tights for workout clothes and had hit the gym a few blocks from my apartment. I was desperate to work him out of my system, even if that meant lifting heavy weights and letting a stair stepper beat the hell out of me.

  Only, it hadn’t worked. As soon as Blake called—from a New York City area code—I’d answered the phone with, “Haven’t you had enough of me for today?”

  Which is what got me here. Facing a million and one questions from my best friend.

  “Nobody?” She snorts. “Okay, we both know you’re not the one to get finger-blasted in a public restroom by Nobody!”

  I sit upright, sloshing water onto the black and white tile floor. “Gross, Blake. Really?”

  She laughs. “Sorry, I’ve been spending way too much time with my cousin Colton. You know, the one that goes to NYU?”

  I feel like I know the blond, gorgeous, rich frat boy who frequently updates his Instagram with photos and memes about his most recent conquests like the back of my hand, honestly. Blake had mentioned Colton on more than one occasion, usually trying to play matchmaker. Glancing down at the New York-based number on my phone, I groan. “Do not program my number into the phone of someone who uses the term finger-blasted.”

  “Well, now I won’t. I’d never want to come between you and the Bathroom Bandit.”

  “Blake,” I groan.

  “All right, all right. Just promise me I’ll get the full scoop when I come home. Otherwise, I’ll spend the rest of my time here writhing in agony.”

  Her theatre professor—the one who’d said her acting was a bland disservice to performance arts—was wrong. The girl can lay on the theatrics like no other.