Playing House: A Black Widow Novel (Dark Secrets Duet Book 1)

by Christa Simpson

  I swallow back my nerve and kneel next to him on the blanket, my heart thundering in the silence. I look up into his eyes submissively, the silence swirling around us like a whirlpool.

  “Yeah?” he asks, the softness of his voice touching me.

  I nod.

  Wearing his resulting smile, Finlay flicks on his Smart TV and scrolls for a movie—any movie. He turns it up a little on the loud side and kneels close to me. There’s a charge in the room when our eyes connect, and I know we’re both thinking about getting intimate. Heat creeps down my neck. My heart hammers against my ribcage. This is finally happening.

  His smile does things to me as he moves in closer yet, first grabbing my hand and then drawing his mouth to mine for a kiss that steals my breath. My eyes flutter shut, and I battle for sanity as he hooks on to my bottom lip and tugs at it with his teeth. He wraps his arms around my waist for a squeeze before sliding his hands under my shirt to unhook my bra and massage me intimately.

  Pinning me against him, Finlay takes all of my weight into his arms and twirls me around, flattening me on the floor beneath him. I rake my fingers through his short hair, his mouth possessing mine. This isn’t like our other kisses, either. This is me saying yes.

  His body presses into mine in places that ache to be touched by him. Once he covers himself with another blanket he’d dropped on the floor next to us, his hands skim back to my waist and play with the band of my yoga pants. He smiles and lets out a content sigh.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” His voice is a little husky. He’s just as nervous as I am.

  I nod and he instantly pecks at my mouth, hovering over me like he’s experienced at the task. I know he’s not, from what I hear, and it just makes this moment that much more special.

  He keeps kissing me, his hands roaming over my body to pull my pants over each hip. I don’t know when he got his own pants off, but I can suddenly feel skin against skin. The foreign warmth drives me mad in the best kind of way.

  “You’re so soft,” he whispers, trailing kisses from my ear to my neck to my throat. His fingers whisper over my hip and slide down to the juncture between my thighs. Air whooshes out of his mouth when I spread my legs for him and let him cup a very sensitive place.

  I lift my hips up to meet him and grind against his palm, begging for more pressure. He gives it to me for a moment but quickly pulls away. I cry out from the loss, gasping for a breath and holding it there, hoping his mother hasn’t heard me from upstairs. Finlay smiles when he replaces his hand with a very erect appendage. He slides against me—the solid length of him making promises I hope he can keep.

  A full body tremor takes me into a state of expectation. I want this so badly now that I’m aching from the inside out. My thighs tremble with anticipation and nerves.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” he says. His hand disappears under my shirt, discovering curves on my body he’s now allowed to touch freely.

  I suck in a breath when he pinches my taut nipple. The stinging sensation only heightens my arousal. “What if it hurts?” I whisper on an exhale.

  He kisses me on the lips and then rolls on the condom he retrieves from his jeans’ pocket. He strokes his long shaft a few times, looking down at me. “It’s not going to hurt.” He licks at his bottom lip and positions himself at my throbbing entrance. “I love you.”

  He comes down and connects our mouths in a heated kiss, pressing forward in one fluid motion, uniting us body and soul. His hips back out slowly, testing my limits before plunging forward again. I whimper when he does it. It fucking hurts. He’s just as long as he looks, and hard like steel. The next time it hurts again, but dare I say it hurts good? After a few more long strokes, I wrap my legs around his waist and squeeze, holding my breath, tightening around him, and wanting more of that deep penetration—needing it. I pant in sync with his every stroke.

  “Oh God,” I whisper against his lips, out of pleasure.

  “Is this good?” he asks, just as his mother comes jogging down the stairs.

  My eyes bulge open, and I drop my legs to the floor, waiting for Finlay to roll aside, but he’s unmoveable, stiffened inside me, his arms in a push-up.

  His mother stops at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, sorry guys,” she says, waving a hand as if to block her view.

  “Mom,” Finlay grumbles, flexing his ass muscles and sinking in deeper.

  I want to shout out how good it feels, but she’s watching me. Even though we’re covered with a blanket, I think it’s pretty obvious what we’re doing. I have to believe the intrusion is intentional, but she grabs whatever it is she acts like she needs from the closet and scurries back upstairs humming a tune like she hasn’t just found her son poking me on her basement floor.

  Finlay doesn’t seem to skip a beat. He starts to move again, connecting our mouths at the same time, and even though it seems a little awkward at first, the more he moves the better it begins to feel. He continues with a slow and steady pump of his hips and a showering of sensual kisses that take me to the next level. When he presses a little deeper, I lift off the floor gasping for air, loving the tight sensation I create.

  “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” he blurts. Finlay looks so worried that he’s hurt me, frozen in place, his body held taught above me.

  I erupt into a nervous giggle and smile widely. “I’m okay,” I say, feeling much better than okay. “How are you?”

  He presses deeply into me. “This place—right here—is my new favorite place to be.”

  Finlay starts to plunge forward with a renewed force. I find myself spreading my legs wider, with my hands on my inner thighs so I can feel him slap against me with every thrust. I wrap my legs around him, and we both groan softly from the new tightness we’ve discovered. He checks me over, smirking as his body continues to crush into mine.

  I only whimper, feeling my body mounting for something new and amazing.

  “Talk to me, baby. Does this feel good?” He sounds short of breath when he presses dangerously hard against my clitoris.

  “Yes!” I shout as his hand comes down over my mouth, surrounded by the remnants of my shattered virginity.

  He smiles with an open mouth, making me spiral with arousal as he rapidly moves his hips. His body tightens as I come undone beneath him, clenching and releasing, gasping for air and clinging onto him as if my life depends on it. Then he flattens me to the floor and digs deep, whispering my name as he stiffens and then falls over me.

  “Clarisse.”

  A cloud of contentment swaddles me and, for a few minutes, I’m truly convinced I’ve made the right decision and waited for the right person. While I right my clothes, Finlay presses a kiss into my lips, marking the end of my independence. Clarisse Blackwell is no longer a virgin. I like how it feels, but I don’t like the look in Finlay’s eyes—the look that says he’s now owner of my freedom. Things are good, though, so I let him believe that I’m his while an inkling of regret wiggles its way into my heart.

  I keep that bundled away with all my other mental baggage for the ensuing weeks. I cram my belongings into a small closet in Finlay’s bedroom and settle in for the holidays. Finlay goes back to being a dream come true. He’s kind and sweet and thoughtful. We spend time together, curled up in front of fireplaces, exploring the big city and making love like animals. Everything seems so new and exciting, but then school resumes. That’s when everything changes.

  It’s amazing what people can disguise so cleverly in public when they really, really want to—even in private for a short while. Now that Finlay has me, it’s a new game we’re playing. He’s the player, I’m the pawn, and no one gets to run interference in this game.

  3: My Mistake

  The sky is filled with clouds this morning, but a ray of winter sunshine peeks out from behind them. I tilt my head in an attempt to absorb that small bit of sunshine, just as it’s snuffed by the clouds. Finlay pulls into the college parking lot, finds a spot to park, and leaps
out of the car. When I open my door, I sink behind my scarf to hide from the whipping wind. I move around the front of the car quickly but still have to run across the road to catch up to Finlay. He’s in a hurry to get nowhere, apparently. He heads in the opposite direction of our classroom.

  He clasps onto my hand when I reach him. “I have to stop by admissions. Something’s wrong with my schedule and I couldn’t fix it online.”

  “Okay.” Not a big deal, except that he hadn’t told me about it sooner.

  I shrug it off and keep the smile pasted on my face. We’re not far from the Admissions Department anyway, so we head straight there. We enter the building, walk down the hall, and wait our turn in the lineup. It shouldn’t take too long, from the look of the small crowd of students in the waiting area, but I could stare into his eyes all day and say nothing at all, so we’re set.

  He leans down and kisses me. “Love you.”

  “Four seventy-two!” the lady shouts when Finlay misses his number.

  Finlay snaps out of it instantly, gets up, and turns back to tell me, “You can wait here. I’ll only be a minute.” He retrieves his hand from mine and walks up to the available clerk.

  I smile at the person sitting in the waiting area next to us and step aside, feeling childish and putdown by the way he treated me. Still, I keep my head held high. I respect his privacy and let him approach the desk alone.

  The middle-aged woman wearing a tight bun at the base of her neck looks up at Finlay expectantly. “Can I help you?”

  Finlay slaps down an unfolded piece of paper and smooths it out in front of her, poking a pointed finger into the page. “What is this?”

  She reads for a moment, quickly locates his student ID, types sporadically into her keyboard, and peers over her reading glasses at the screen. She lifts her tablet off the stand and, after a few swipes of her finger, turns it around to show Finlay. “This one class can’t be switched. There is no availability. See here?”

  Finlay reaches for the device, but the woman pulls it away, replaces it on her desk, and settles back in her chair, as if that might end the conversation. I keep my distance, knowing it’s far from over.

  Finlay shakes his head. “What do you mean you switched my schedule? You can’t just mess with a student’s schedule. I did not authorize this.” He starts pulling at his hair and squeezing his eyes shut, his face contorting into a frustrated twist. This is a new side of Finlay, and I don’t like it very much.

  The woman scowls back at him from behind her large desk. “There’s a note right here that your request to be in all of Ms. Blackwell’s classes would be approved only if the class size allows for it. The requests were all approved except for Physiology of Fitness. I’m sorry, Mr. Turnbull, but that’s the best we can do for you.”

  Finlay turns his back to me, blocking the screen and leaning forward so he can see for himself, keeping his voice low. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I understood we were in all the same classes.” His eyes drill into hers to make a point. I’m not to hear this conversation.

  Oh, but I already have.

  The woman keeps her eyebrows raised high and her tone clipped. “Turns out you were wrong, Mr. Turnbull.” She glances at Finlay over her small glasses with a disapproving look on her face. She’s not prepared to back down. She obviously doesn’t know Finlay very well, and I’m starting to believe that neither do I.

  “I’m sure you can fix this,” he insists, turning on the charm and leaving his cold threats in the dust. He reaches over the desk and adjusts the woman’s name tag. “A woman in your position must have her ways, Greta.”

  Right when I think she’s going to sock him one, she comes up with a question more shocking. “What is it you want to be when you’re done with school, Mr. Turnbull?”

  “A chiropractor,” he states. “But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  She smiles with pasty pink lips, but it looks like it’s painful for her to do so. “I’d love to teach you something no physiology class ever will—it’s called respect—but I’m afraid I don’t have the time and you don’t have the patience to make any progress on that front today.”

  I don’t like the way this conversation is turning, with Finlay growing more suspicious, glancing over his shoulder to see whether I’ve heard any of that or not. There’s a tightness in his jaw that would actually be quite attractive if he weren’t growing angrier by the second. To stop the impending doom, I act like I’ve missed their entire conversation, smile and turn away. Inside, though, I flounder with the idea that he is the reason our schedules are nearly a complete match.

  The school day resumes, and I keep a lock down on my curiosity. Even though Finlay fights again with the admissions department to fix the unmatched class issue the next day, and the next, it doesn’t work. I act unaffected by his lies and, for the remainder of our first week back, I focus on remaining calm while I’m a total mess inside. Another week of classes comes and goes.

  “Come on. Class is about to start.” I tug Finlay to our last class of the day, and don’t stop until we’re inside one of the classroom doors flanking the front of the room.

  Many other students file into the room around us. I’ve no doubt we’ve all heard the same rumor about our professor. When class starts, he’ll lock the doors. No one will be allowed in the room after that, under any circumstances.

  We hustle up the stairs in the lecture hall, hand in hand. Half way into the room, I slide between the long desks and take a seat toward the middle. Two of Finlay’s buddies come walking in the same entrance that we had. Luke, the dark haired one, gives me a small wave before taking the seat beside Finlay. I smile and wave, and Finlay doesn’t seem to have a problem with that, but when the vacant seat to my left gets eyed up by a very handsome, very blond, classmate, things get ugly.

  “Hey,” I say, smiling at the guy when he walks toward me. It’d be rude not to. It’s not because he’s attractive, with hair as white as ice, although I’m not the only woman looking his way when he speaks to me with a clean European accent.

  “I remember you,” he says, smiling.

  “Oh?” I say, returning the smile.

  “Ryan,” he says, reaching his hand out to me. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

  “Shhh!” The sound whooshes from Finlay’s mouth as a warning.

  In that moment, I know I had better not take his hand. The introduction ends there, the greeting remaining one-sided, unfinished and awkward.

  It’s fine. The beautiful man doesn’t need to tell me where he remembers me from. How could I have missed him two desks over in our physiology class the other day? It was the one class I didn’t have Finlay breathing down my neck the entire time. Despite Finlay’s obvious disapproval of our connection, Ryan takes the seat next to me, and I’m not talking two seats down. No, literally right beside me, close enough that our arms bump when we start taking notes moments later.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, feeling like a doofus. Being left-handed has its disadvantages. I glance toward Finlay and cower from his unspoken rage. That look is my last warning and I heed it, being careful to keep my eyes to the front of the class and my left elbow tucked against my side.

  Class drags on after that, with Finlay’s eyes drilling into the side of my head. His glare never leaves me, and his chin never moves. He looks like an emotional statue, with his big, bug-eyes magnetized to my face. Even his friends can’t get through to him, and they’re doing their best to grab his attention with dumb jokes during our first break.

  Luke starts to really pick at him, thinking the way Finlay’s treating me is comedic. “Hey, Finlay. What’s clear and smells like red paint?”

  Finlay doesn’t answer.

  “Oh, come on, bruh. You know this one.”

  Finlay continues to scowl toward me, unblinking.

  Luke stands and slides up behind my chair so Finlay can see him. “Chloroform,” Luke continues, cupping his hand over my m
outh like I’m a victim being held hostage by a psychopath. “Shhh,” he hushes, when I squirm beneath his firm hand.

  I swat at him until he releases me, and scowl while Luke backs away to retake his seat. I fidget beneath Finlay’s motionless stare while Luke and his friend burst into laughter. Finlay is the psycho-boyfriend Luke jokes about, but mocking Finlay’s social awkwardness is only making matters worse for me.

  Luke quickly holds his breath when our professor returns to the room. He slaps his friend next to him who continues to laugh. I don’t know how much more of this I can take without going off the deep end. I watch the professor head for the door to lock it. Ryan sneaks through the door just in the nick of time. He flashes an intelligent smile at the professor as he passes him and then casually looks my way.

  What a shocker. Ryan doesn’t return to the seat next to me. Instead, he sits down at the far end of the room a few seats away from Savari—the beautiful blonde girl I once called my best friend. I don’t blame Ryan, or her, for that matter. I’d steer clear of me, too. Finlay is a loose cannon, and I feel like we’re playing Russian roulette—no one knows when he’s going to fire off, not him and especially not me.

  I’m embarrassed. Finlay must know that. But he continues to play his stupid staring game as class resumes, and so I do the only thing in my control. I ignore everyone and everything around me—including Finlay. I scribble in my notebook to make it look like I’m taking a valid interest in the class, but my notes are illegible, and my written words have nothing to do with the garbled noise coming from my professor’s mouth, even if I did notice that he’s incredibly easy to look at.

  I try to concentrate on class but my head won’t let me. First, I must punish Finlay for embarrassing me in public. My ignorance is his punishment for acting so selfishly and not trusting my love for him. But what can I do to make him pay? Finlay must pay for this.

  My eyes linger on our professor with the obsidian hair. Mr. Varela is one fine specimen—sophistication wrapped in a suit that looks much too expensive for a teacher’s salary. It looks like he’s actually enjoying himself at the front of the class. I wish Finlay would look at me with that kind of passion. I bet Mr. Varela doesn’t disrespect his woman the way Finlay does me.