Titan's Addiction (Wall Street Titan Book 2)

by Anna Zaires

  Besides, only Kendall knows who the “mystery redhead” is.

  8

  Emma

  “So, how’s our mystery redhead?” Gramps says, walking into the kitchen, and I nearly spit out the coffee I was swishing around in my mouth. At the last second, I swallow it instead—and immediately break into a coughing fit because the hot liquid went down the wrong pipe.

  “Gramps!” I choke out when I can speak. “Since when do you read The New York Herald?”

  I was sure, dead certain, that my grandparents wouldn’t see that piece of insightful journalism. Because why would they? The Herald is basically a local gossip rag full of clickbait stories that make the whole “getting hitched at Disney World” bit seem like a deeply researched fact.

  “Since I learned that the man my favorite granddaughter is dating makes headlines, and I set up Google alerts for his name,” Gramps says, as unflappable as ever. “What, you think the internet is the province of the young?”

  “He read it to me first thing this morning,” Grandma chimes in from the kitchen island, where she’s chopping veggies with the precision of a food processor. “I told him not to tease you about it, but he couldn’t resist.”

  “Couldn’t resist what?” Marcus asks, entering the kitchen. He had to take a work call a few minutes ago and thus missed all the fun.

  “Mentioning the article,” Grandma explains as Marcus walks over to sit on a barstool next to me. “I told Ted to keep his mouth shut and not tease Emma, but he didn’t listen.”

  Marcus grins. “I can’t blame him. Look at how prettily she’s blushing. Who could resist?” Leaning over, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and kisses my temple.

  My face heats immediately. I was red because of my coughing fit, not Gramps’s teasing, but now that both of my grandparents are beaming at us, I’m blushing for real.

  I’m going to kill Marcus before this trip is over. I really am.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Grandma asks Marcus, graciously coming to my rescue. “We don’t have anything fancy, but—”

  “Whatever you have would be great, thank you,” he says. “I’m in dire need of a caffeine fix, and I’m not picky.”

  Grandma wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and walks over to the coffee maker to pour a cup of the same java I’m drinking—which is actually quite fancy. It’s some kind of special blend that Grandma orders straight from Colombia. Normally, she’s very proud of it, telling all and sundry about how and where the beans are grown, so why did she just try to—

  Oh, of course.

  Since my grandparents read the article, they know Marcus is a billionaire. And not just any billionaire, but a Wall Street titan whose fund has almost a hundred billion under management.

  Actually, they must’ve known that even before the article, since Gramps set up those Google alerts. He probably looked up Marcus at some point after our Skype session, and this is the result.

  My grandparents might not show it, but they’re at least somewhat intimidated by their guest’s wealth. Why else would Grandma downplay the awesomeness of her Colombian elixir?

  “Here you go,” she says, handing Marcus a cup, and he thanks her before taking a big sip.

  Immediately, his eyes widen, and he looks at the cup, then at my grandmother. “Mary, this is amazing coffee. Where on earth did you get it?”

  Grandma lights up like a Christmas tree. “You like it? I order it from this one small farm in Colombia, near the Amazon rainforest…” She launches into her usual spiel about the farm’s fair-trade practices, and I tune her out to study my new boyfriend—or whatever Marcus is to me now.

  Needless to say, my plan of pretending to be together for my grandparents’ sake while keeping him at a distance failed miserably. I still have no intention of moving in with him, but I can’t deny that we are, at the very least, dating again.

  Or rather, sleeping together and spending Thanksgiving with my family.

  Speaking of which, Marcus seems exceedingly comfortable with my grandparents. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised after the way he jumped at a chance to meet them on Skype, but it’s still quite impressive to me. My college ex had always been so stiff around them, so afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. To Jim, my grandparents had been dinosaurs, so ancient and strange that he never bothered getting to know them as individuals—or paying them much attention. Marcus, however, is not only listening to my grandmother with total concentration, he’s asking follow-up questions, interacting with her as he would with me.

  To him, my family isn’t unwelcome baggage that comes along with dating me; they’re people. And judging by his demeanor, people he likes and respects.

  Grandma and Gramps have already had breakfast—despite going to bed late, they woke up early, as usual—but they keep us company as we devour the leftovers: zucchini-pumpkin pancakes with homemade yogurt and local honey. As we eat, Grandma tells Marcus all about the tomatoes she’s growing in her garden, and Gramps asks Marcus a zillion questions about the market and which stocks to invest in.

  “Gramps, he can’t just tell you that,” I chide when my grandfather first gets on the topic. “That’s like insider trading or frontrunning or something.”

  “Only if I’m disclosing material nonpublic information or telling him about a trade my fund’s about to make,” Marcus says, smiling at me warmly. “There’s nothing wrong with your grandfather asking my opinion on various investments.”

  “Oh, okay. I wasn’t sure,” I mumble, forking a piece of pancake into my mouth. “In that case, carry on.”

  And they do. By the time breakfast is over, I feel like I’ve sat through an hour of CNBC, only with vastly smarter talking heads. My grandfather must’ve gotten even more into investing in the past year, because he seems to know all the right things to ask. Or maybe it just feels that way to me because Marcus answers all of his questions without the slightest hint of condescension. Either way, all the stock talk leaves Gramps so pumped up that as soon as we get up and thank Grandma for the delicious pancakes, he runs straight for his laptop—presumably to buy some of the investments he and Marcus have discussed.

  “Thank you for that,” I tell Marcus as we walk back to our room. “You made him so happy.”

  “Did I?” He gives me a sidelong look. “What about you, kitten?”

  “Me?”

  “Did I bore you with all the investment chatter?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all.” And to my surprise, it’s true. Though the topic isn’t something I’m interested in, observing Marcus in his element had been fascinating. Not only does he possess bottomless knowledge about the stock market and many publicly traded companies, he has a way of conveying it that makes the normally dull-to-me subject come alive. Partially, it’s the way he speaks, with a kind of quiet authority that commands attention. Mostly, though, it’s how he seamlessly weaves the human element into the numbers, talking about investor psychology and CEO personalities in the same breath as profit margins and valuation metrics.

  Listening to him, I understood why my grandfather and so many others fall into stock investing as a hobby—and why Marcus himself is so passionate about what he does.

  He smiles warmly. “I’m glad. You didn’t look bored, but you were very quiet.”

  “Nope, not bored at all.” Entering the guestroom, I stop and turn to face him. “So, what are your plans for today? I mean, do you have some ideas for what you want to do before our Thanksgiving dinner?” Marcus’s gaze instantly strays to the bed, and I clarify, “Besides that.”

  He grins down at me, blue eyes gleaming. “Well, this is Florida, so I was thinking we could go to the beach. Unless you have other suggestions? I’m open to whatever.”

  “You don’t have other work calls or anything?” Before he showed up, I planned to spend most of my vacation hanging out on my grandparents’ lanai with my laptop, getting ahead on edits—and maybe even working on the first chapter of my own super-secret story. Now, however, all of
that is out the window… unless Marcus also plans to work part of the day.

  He lifts his eyebrows. “You sound disappointed. Do you want me to work?”

  “No, of course not—unless you have to. I’ll totally understand if you have to.” And yes, maybe a part of me wants him occupied with something other than me, so I can catch my breath and try to maintain some equanimity. I’d been the sole recipient of his attention for most of last weekend, and it had been beyond heady, so much so it had nearly crushed me when he left and subsequently disappeared for three days. If he’s going to be here until Sunday—and I suspect he will be, as despite my ultimatum last night, he hasn’t said a peep to my grandparents about flying back to NYC tonight—I need to find a way to protect myself, to keep at least a portion of my heart shielded in case he flips the switch from hot to cold again.

  His lips curve wryly as understanding glimmers in his gaze. “How about we bring some folding chairs and our laptops to the beach? We can swim if the water is warm enough, and if not, we can just enjoy the ocean breeze while catching up on some work. I’m guessing you have something you need to get done, editing-wise?”

  “Well, kind of,” I admit sheepishly. “It’s nothing urgent, but—”

  “Say no more. If there’s anything I understand, it’s wanting to have a productive vacation.”

  I smile up at him. “Okay, great. Let me just grab my things and—”

  “Wait.” He catches my arm. “Before you do that, there’s something I’ve been meaning to do all morning.”

  “Oh?” I say breathlessly, my head tipping back as he grips my hips and draws me against his tall, hard body. “What’s that?”

  His voice turns husky. “This.” And dipping his head to kiss me, he maneuvers us toward the bed.

  9

  Marcus

  It’s official.

  I’m an animal when it comes to Emma.

  We had sex less than a half hour ago, yet as my hand glides over the smooth skin of her back, covering it with sunblock before we exit the car, all I can think about is how much I want to run my tongue up the indentation of her spine—and how much I love seeing the red, hickey-like marks on the junction between her neck and shoulder, where I sucked and nibbled on her tender flesh a little too hard last night.

  It’s wrong, and completely Neanderthal of me, but I want everyone who looks at her at the beach today to know that she’s mine.

  “Please don’t forget to spread it under the bikini straps and the waistband of the shorts,” she murmurs, glancing at me over her shoulder. Her gray eyes are bright in the sunlight pouring in through the car windows, her freckled cheeks softly flushed under the wide brim of her hat. “I always get the most awful sunburn right around the edges of my swimsuit.”

  “Don’t worry.” My voice comes out thicker than I intended. “I’ve got you.”

  I finish covering her back and shoulders with a thick layer of sunblock, making sure to go under the straps of her yellow bikini top and into the jean shorts covering her bikini bottoms. Then I hand her the tube. “All done.”

  “What about you?” she asks as I reach for the door handle. “Do you want me to apply it to your back?”

  “Maybe later.” Between seeing her without a shirt and smearing the lotion on her deliciously soft skin, I’m already battling a beach-inappropriate erection. If she starts touching me, we might not leave the car—and I may need to explain a public indecency charge to her grandparents when they come to bail us out of jail.

  Stock market advice or not, Ted Walsh might not like me very much after that.

  Exiting the car, I inhale deeply, drawing the warm, humid air into my lungs. It smells like salt, sun, and sand. According to my car’s dashboard, it’s eighty-four degrees outside—an unusually hot day for late November in northern Florida. Which probably explains why the boardwalk and the beach in front of us are teeming with people, both tourists and locals alike.

  Thankfully, nobody is looking at the bulge in my shorts as I walk over to the trunk to take out the beach chairs we borrowed from her grandparents. Holding the chairs under one arm, I reach into the back seat and grab my laptop bag, which holds both of our computers.

  “I got the rest of it,” Emma says, opening the opposite door to take out the bag with our towels and water. As she stretches to grab it from the middle of the backseat, the top of her bikini bra gapes open, letting me catch a glimpse of a pink nipple.

  Fuck.

  That’s not helping the bulge situation at all. Plus, I’m now pissed because if I caught that glimpse, some passerby could’ve as well—and those sweet nipples are for my eyes only. As is that luscious ass in those too-short shorts.

  Clenching my teeth, I straighten and take a deep breath as I lock the car.

  Maybe the beach wasn’t such a good idea. Emma half-naked in public isn’t something I handle well, it seems.

  “This way,” she says, heading toward the steps leading down to the beach, and after another settling breath, I follow her, making sure to hold the bag in front of me as I walk.

  She goes straight for the shady area under the pier, and I set up our chairs about a dozen feet from the wet line in the sand, to keep our laptops safe from the waves aggressively lapping at the shore. Down here by the water, it’s much cooler than it was on the boardwalk, and the breeze is fresh and salty, as invigorating as only the ocean air can be.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Emma says to a middle-aged woman lounging on a towel near us. “Would you mind watching our things while we swim?”

  “Sure, happy to,” she says with a hint of a Southern accent. “You folks go ahead.”

  “Thank you,” Emma says, and taking off her hat, she gathers her hair into a thick, messy bun on top of her head. Next, she unzips her shorts and pushes them down her legs, revealing yellow bikini bottoms that cover even less of her ass than those tiny shorts. Her round, plush, perfectly grabbable ass. If we were alone, I’d have my hands all over it. I’d squeeze it, lick it, bite it—

  Dammit, I seriously need help. Maybe I should see a shrink when we get back to New York—preferably one who specializes in sex addiction to curvy little redheads. There’s got to be such a thing, right?

  In the meantime, I see only one way to deal with this torture.

  “Come here,” I growl, stepping toward Emma, and ignoring her squeals, I swing her into my arms and carry her into the water, not stopping until we’re chest deep.

  Well, I’m chest deep, and she’s clinging to my neck to keep the waves from hitting her in the face.

  “You monster,” she shrieks, climbing up my body like a monkey when a particularly large wave tries to cover her anyway. “This water is freaking cold!”

  I grin into her outraged face. “I know. Refreshing, isn’t it?” And most importantly, erection-reducing.

  “No!” She wipes the salt spray off her face. “You suck!”

  “You planned to go swimming, didn’t you?”

  “Not like this! I was going to wade in slowly, let myself adjust to this… this ice bath.” She looks so offended by the seventy-five-degree water I can’t help but laugh.

  “It’s not that cold, kitten. Besides, sometimes it’s better to just jump in. Take a plunge and then worry about adjusting.”

  She licks her rosebud lips. “What if… what if you never adjust?” Her gray gaze turns somber. “What if you simply can’t?”

  “And what if you can?” I counter, knowing we’re no longer talking about the water temperature. Holding her against me with one arm, I frame her pretty face with my palm. “What if it’s the only way?”

  She blinks at me, her auburn lashes sweeping down and up. “You really think that?”

  “I do,” I say firmly. “I really do.” And as another wave breaks against my back, I press my lips to hers, tasting the salt of the ocean spray and the addictive sweetness of her.

  10

  Emma

  Our breakfast was pretty much a brunch and Grandma likes to
eat dinner early, so we skip lunch and spend the entire afternoon on the beach, alternately lounging in the chairs and swimming. True to his word, Marcus lets me work on my laptop when we’re between swims, and I manage to edit a good chunk of a shifter romance novella due next Friday. Afterward, I call my landlady to find out how my cats are doing, and I learn that while Cottonball and Queen Elizabeth are as well behaved as always, Mr. Puffs has decided that my favorite pillow makes a great claw-scratcher.

  Needless to say, there’s shredded memory foam all over my bed and floor.

  “I was going to clean it up, but he started hissing at me,” Mrs. Metz says fretfully. “You’ll have to deal with it yourself. I swear, that cat of yours is part demon.”

  Part demon? She’s being generous. It’s more like ninety percent.

  “I’m so sorry about that. He probably just misses me,” I lie. No need to scare the woman by admitting that Mr. Puffs is always like that. “And please, don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll take care of it when I return on Sunday. Thank you again for watching them for me.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem, dear. Happy to help anytime. Oh, and I almost forgot to ask you… Did your boyfriend get in touch with you? He came by here right after you left for the airport, was looking for you.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t realized Marcus went by my apartment before driving to the airport to catch me. Is that how he knew when my flight was? Because now that I’m thinking about it, I never told him my flight number or what time I was supposed to fly out. All I said was that I’m going to Florida on Wednesday.

  Making a mental note to ask Marcus about this, I tell Mrs. Metz, “Yes, he caught up with me. Everything is fine, thank you.”

  “Oh, okay, good.” She clears her throat. “Wait, did you say, ‘caught up?’ Is he there with you now?”

  “Um… yes. Yes, he is.” In fact, at this very moment, he’s staring at me as I pace by the edge of water with my phone, his gaze as hot as the sun baking my shoulders. I stepped away to make this call so I wouldn’t bother him, but I seem to be distracting him from work anyway.