by Emily Snow
“You invited me into your personal life the moment you had me deliver her to you!” she cries. “If you hurt her, you’re no better than her father. And I know you well enough to realize how much good is...”
I let her bluster on with the usual spiel where she tells me what a sweet boy I was and how disappointed her mother—my former nanny—would be at the cold son-of-a-bitch I’ve become. I’ve heard it more times than I care to remember, and I’ve reached the point where I can recite it right along with her. After she’s done, I give her a moment to catch her breath before I respond.
“Let me make this clear, V. You’re not the cricket on my shoulder. The next time you call me, make sure it’s about work. Given that it’s your holiday vacation, I don’t expect to hear from you in the coming days.”
She tries to give me another piece of her mind, but I shoot her down fast because I don’t like the emotional bullshit that comes with my former sister-in-law’s warnings—especially when those warnings have to do with Elle.
“Goodnight, Veronica. May your Christmas be filled with joy and love and all the empty promises my brother can throw your way.”
In spite of her gasp and the goddamn pang in my chest that comes with hurting her, I hang up.
Fuck, I’m a bastard, but I’d lost my composure the second she mentioned Charlotte.
Staring out at the lights glittering in the night sky, I don’t look away until I’ve shoved her name into the far recesses of my mind and the only thing I hear is another woman’s name.
Eleanor Courtney.
At first, I think my mind is playing tricks on me—that Elle has dug her way so deep into my skin that I’m hearing her name now. But then, I turn around and there she is. On my TV screen in full HD. She’s dressed in another one of her hideous outfits—an oversized Christmas sweater with a see-through food service apron bundled over it—but watching her motivates my cock in a way that makes me question my sanity.
I want her.
Crave her like I’ve never desired any other woman, not even the one whose name still haunts me.
A caption scrolls across the bottom of the screen, which I read aloud, “Senator Robert Courtney and family spend Christmas Eve volunteering at Arlington Hope House.”
The reporter says something to Elle, making her laugh. When she parts her pink lips to speak, I listen closely, feeling like an idiot for hanging on to everything she says. “This is a family tradition for us.” She smiles down at the Styrofoam plate she’s spooning mashed potatoes onto. “I couldn’t imagine doing anything else on Christmas Eve.”
“But what about New Year’s Eve? No plans with someone special this year?” the reporter teases.
She tilts her head back and chuckles, and my hand closes around the chess piece again. “That depends.” Lifting her shoulders, she lowers her eyes to look into the camera. I wonder if she’ll look so calm and reserved when my dick is down her throat. “Do you count ringing in the New Year with my amazing older brother and my wonderful parents as plans with someone special?”
I don’t know a thing about her brother, but her wonderful parents? I snort. She’s such a fucking liar. “Change of plans, Ms. Courtney,” I say through my teeth.
The news feed flashes to Robert Courtney passing his daughter a plate, and my sneer dissolves into bitter contempt. He smiles for the camera, but it’s not genuine like hers. Laughing at something the reporter says, he gives Elle a pat on the back, which she reacts to with a little grin.
“What the fuck is this?”
She’d left me and immediately gone back to him. I was right. Eleanor Courtney is absolutely predictable—I’d just read her wrong all along.
Returning the pawn piece to the chessboard, I slide my phone into my pocket, deciding against calling her because what I need is best demanded in person.
A few minutes later, I leave the building with one thing on my mind.
Fucking Eleanor Courtney.
FIFTEEN
ELLE
“Will you really be spending the day with your mother and me tomorrow? And New Year’s too?” Dad asks through an award-winning smile meant to dazzle the masses. “Or was that all a show for the camera since you lied about Zachary coming home?”
The disdainful way he says my brother’s name pisses me off, and I flash my teeth at him. “I learned from the best.”
“That’s not an answer, Eleanor.”
Accepting the plate he practically shoves in my direction, I fill one of the compartments with potatoes and pass it along to an elderly woman who wishes me a wonderful Christmas. “You too,” I say. Once she’s out of earshot, I scratch the side of my neck and lift my shoulders to my ears.
“That’s not an answer either,” he snaps. “I’ve spent thousands on your education, the least you can do is find your words.”
“Okay then, the answer is no. I already have plans with friends.” Which is a complete lie. With my brother spending Christmas with his new in-laws, my holiday plans include my couch, Travel Channel marathons, and desperately trying to scrub one dark-eyed, black-souled, and wickedly sexy senator from my thoughts.
He’s spent way too much time in my head since I left New York, and it’s time for me to get a grip.
“Did you hear what I just said?” Dad’s harsh tone rips into my thoughts of Graham Delaney. He moves closer, and I stiffen. “Get your head out of the clouds, Eleanor. Don’t make things difficult like your brother has done. Holidays are meant for your family. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come out here today.”
I glare over my shoulder to see a knowing glint in his pale irises. With my own black hair and light blue eyes, it always strikes me how much I resemble him because we’re absolutely nothing alike.
I’ve even heard my cinephile roommate refer to him as Darth Sidious a time or two.
“I came because I meant what I told that reporter.” I accept another plate, turning to grin at its recipient—a teenage boy who walks away blushing and casting a glance back at me—before quietly saying, “I believe in this cause. That’s why I’m here.”
“You make it sound like I don’t.”
Taking in the sight of my father, from the perfectly coiffed black hair to the designer blue suit that could pay several months’ rent for the majority of the people we’re serving, I race my tongue along the inside of my cheek.
“You believe in numbers.” I rub my palms over my waist, frowning upon realizing that I’m still wearing a plastic apron over the exceedingly cheerful sweater I’d picked up on sale. “You believe in strategy. And this is strategy.”
“I believe my disappointment of a daughter talks too much for her own good.” He hands me another plate and motions stiffly for me to turn around. “You’ll come to dinner tomorrow because there’s the matter of your tuition.”
An angry jolt rushes through me. Luckily nobody is waiting in line because I grip the Styrofoam plate so tightly the edges begin to crumble. It’s not necessarily the words that fluster me, but the image they conjure. Not of my father but of Senator Sexy-Ass.
Graham with his cocky smile and rough, sensual hands. Graham with his filthy promises and dirty propositions. Graham and his lies.
He’d cost me the job I needed to pay my tuition just so he could be my knight in kinky armor.
Sucking in a deep breath, I set the partially ruined plate on the buffet. I glance at my mother who’s holding someone’s baby and smiling prettily for the camera. “Didn’t she already tell you? The tuition has already been taken care of. So if you think I’m doing any of this to get money out of you, you’re dead wrong.”
Untying my apron, I walk around my father. He reaches for my wrist, but I successfully evade him, tilting my face away from the cameras to give him the coldest smile I can muster.
“What are you doing?” His own smile never falters.
“Going to the restroom.” I pull the apron over my head and carefully set it on the table behind us. “I’ll be back soon.”
; What I really need is fresh air and another opportunity to kick myself for answering the door when he showed up at my apartment this afternoon. “Your brother’s already let me down for the evening, don’t you do it, too,” he’d said smoothly. Feeling guilty at the idea of shunning an incredible charity in exchange for cold pizza and Expedition Unknown reruns, I quickly agreed to go. Told myself that a good cause always outweighs playing with the enemy.
Except, that isn’t true.
“Don’t take too long,” Dad says pleasantly. As I walk away, I hear him brag to the nearest reporter that someday his beautiful, accomplished daughter will be on her network, which proves he doesn’t know a thing about me or my goals.
I want to be a travel journalist.
I don’t want to touch politics with a ten-foot pole.
Ducking my head, I practically sprint from the building.
Standing outside the giant warehouse that had been converted into a soup kitchen when I was still a child, goosebumps scatter over my skin, and I wish I’d grabbed my coat before coming out here. I drag in a deep breath. Even though it looks like I’m the only person out and about, this area isn’t the safest. Good sense screams for me to go back inside, but pride refuses to let yet another politician screw me over this week.
Telling myself that fifteen minutes alone is enough time to return and smile pleasantly without playing Whack-A-Senator with a serving spoon, I start walking, hugging my arms around myself.
It doesn’t take long to realize I’m being followed—not by someone on foot, but by a car creeping along the street. Reaching for my phone, I cringe when I remember I left it in my coat pocket. Damn.
I pick up my pace, but the car pulls ahead of me, stopping on the curb. Before I have time to completely freak out, I see the blue and white BMW emblem out the corner of my eye. The window rolls down slightly. At first, all I hear is the sound of JAY-Z and Justin Timberlake’s “Holy Grail,” but then Graham’s voice glides over me like silk, loud and clear over the music, stealing the breath right out of my lungs.
“It’s dark, and we’re downtown. It’s fucking dangerous for you to be walking the streets by yourself.”
Oh. My. God.
Why the hell is he here and not in New York—where he should be?
And why is he following me?
He rolls the window down completely, and I exhale the breath I was holding. “Get in, Ms. Courtney,” he commands, turning down the volume.
I look around at the empty sidewalk before casting a stony glare in his general direction. “Considering the only visible danger is the asshole in the luxury sedan, I’ll take my chances on the street.”
I start walking again, gripping the hem of my sweater to occupy my hands and keep them from shaking. He follows. After thirty seconds, I can’t take it anymore, and I stop. He parks the car at the curb. Jabbing my tongue into my cheek, I stalk toward him.
I disregard the wild fluttering in my chest that comes from the unapologetic, hungry way his dark eyes sweep over my body.
“How the hell did you find me?” I hiss, leaning down to peer inside the BMW.
“You’re famous, Elle. Even network news wants a piece of you.” His mouth tugs into a sarcastic grin. I’d like to slap it right off his face. “I didn’t realize you were so giving. But then, here you are. Shivering on a sidewalk as you, once again, run off from your commitments.”
The fact that he’s already bringing up New York makes me see red. “If you saw me on TV, smart-ass, you know there are cameras all around. But I’m sure if you’re seen you won’t have any trouble explaining why you’re trying to pick me up like a—”
“Careful, Elle,” he warns, leaving the word prostitute hanging in my throat. “The cameras are several blocks back, and besides, your daddy’s peacocking will keep them plenty busy.” He nods to the passenger seat. “Get in the car, before I get out.”
“And then what will you do?”
“Then I’ll give your cunt an encore of what we started against a bathroom wall last week.” In spite of his words, his bronze face is all business. My body reacts instantaneously, the area in question tightening sharply when he lowers his focus to my thighs. He reaches for his door handle. “And Elle? I’m not going to give a fuck who sees us.”
Spotting a truck turning down the otherwise empty street, I jump into the passenger seat and slam the door as hard as I can. “You, Senator Delaney, are an asshole. Please explain to me how you got into office?”
“You didn’t have to get in the car, dove.” I feel his brown eyes burning into the side of my face. “You could have stayed out there, waiting to see if I followed through. I would have, just so we’re clear.”
“That’s exactly why I got inside, just so we’re clear.”
Laughing, he pulls away from the curb and drives about a mile up the street, where he parks at a Mom and Pop pharmacy. “Sorry, but it looks like they’re closed. You’ll have to get the condoms and lube you were going to buy to fuck me over somewhere else,” I snap.
“Don’t worry. When I fuck you, I’ll come fully prepared.”
The fierce pain that comes with craving something wrong and incredibly stupid pummels through me. “What do you want, Graham?” I demand brokenly.
“You.” He touches my thigh. Opening his long fingers. Scorching my skin through my black leggings. “You didn’t answer my text.” He grazes his hand higher, reaching for the center, for my weakness, but I squeeze my legs together.
“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your rant about owning me. Next time I’ll slip on my collar and take a photo for you like a good … ohhhh!” I drag in a ragged breath when, despite my closed legs, he roughly strokes the inside of my thighs.
“How soaked are your panties?” His thumb flicks roughly over my clitoris. “Are you dripping for me?”
“Nope, completely dry,” I lie, but my thighs give me away when I snap them together, trapping his hand.
“Look at me,” he orders. When I do, his fingers go still. The man is the epitome of sex no matter what he’s wearing, but tonight—dressed in a black button-down and jeans, with his persistent five o’clock shadow and his dark hair carelessly disarranged—he looks dangerous.
I was safer outside his car, I’m sure of that.
“You asked me what I want, so let me make it clear to you one last time. I want to teach you things you didn’t know existed, in positions you didn’t think were feasible.”
“I have a good imagination,” I say, but he dips his fingers under the waistband of my pants. “What are you doing?” I panic.
“Distracting myself from putting your legs over my shoulders and licking your cunt dry.”
The image that shoves into my head.
Wow.
“Is it just me or do you get cruder as the days march on?” I retort. Reaching into my pants, I grab his wrist, link my shaking fingers with his, and hold his hand tightly. He still manages to stroke my clit with the tip of his thumb, grinning broadly when my lashes start to flutter.
“Don’t speak, just listen.” With his other hand, he cups my face almost tenderly. “I want your mouth to open for my cock.”
“You manipulated me,” I whisper, but he rubs his thumb from side to side over my glossy lips, all the while brushing the sensitive spot between my legs in a teasing rhythm. “You lied to me to ... Ohhhh!”
As I climax, he drowns my moans with his mouth, shoving his tongue between my lips and kissing me brutally while our intertwined fingers work over my throbbing flesh. It feels so good. So incredibly good that it’s easy to forget that Graham had screwed me over. After my cries die down to pitiful pants, he presses his forehead to mine.
“Screw you, Delaney,” I whisper.
“That’s what else I want,” he says, moving our hands south. Toward my ass. I feel one of his fingers stroke my entrance there, and I gasp so hard my chest burns. “To be the first to fuck—not screw—this.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be,” I lie. He f
rowns and pulls his hand out of my pants. Leaning back, I nearly melt when I see him lick the taste of me off his fingers. “Plus, we’re ending our arrangement. Right now.”
He nods. I’m positive the next words that will come from his lips will be “So long, farewell.”
Instead, he throws his head back and laughs.
SIXTEEN
ELLE
“You think this is funny?” I ask.
He’s still chuckling, but his expression is so frigid, I shiver. “Ending our agreement is not an option.”
I start to argue, but he covers my lips with his thumb. “If you return the money—then what? Did you stop to think about what would happen next? Would you go back to jiggling your ass for tips at night while fetching coffee for some small-time editor during the day?”
“Why do you care?”
“I just do.” He narrows his dark brown eyes into tight slits. “Unless you’ve gone back to your father to beg for his forgiveness for whatever the fuck it is you did to make him angry?”
“God, no!” I cross my arms over my chest. “But if I had, what would it matter to you?”
“Because then I’d be wrong about you. And I fucking loathe being wrong about people.”
“Yeah? Well, me too.” I feel a small wiggle of satisfaction at the way his gaze softens. Good. I hope he feels awful. I hope he tosses and turns so much at night, his sweat ruins his expensive sheets. That his tiny heart explodes from the pressure of remorse. Wishful thinking, of course, because the man is too damn cold to actually perspire and there’s a 99.9 percent chance he has a black void where his heart should be.
“You know, you could have at least apologized,” I whisper.
“Do you want me to be honest? No filter?”
“What do you think?”
He leans into me, and I suck in my bottom lip so he won’t see that it’s trembling. “I’m sorry you found out. I’m sorry you left New York before I had a chance to taste your body and fuck you until my dick’s content. I’m sorry that we’re wasting time by talking now because the desire to possess you has become an absolute necessity since you walked out on me. I’m sorry that you feel hurt by what I did. But, Ms. Courtney?”