My mom gave me this mug when I graduated from high school. After my dad left, she didn’t have much money. Helping me get there wasn’t an option. She struggled, right up to the very end, when breast cancer took her life. She died alone, convinced that dad left her because she lost all her hair. It was tragic and seemingly delusional—just like my father—but I often wondered just how deluded the theory really was. My father was a material man, after all. Shallow to the bone. Appearance always mattered in his eyes. If it didn’t look good, then it wasn’t worth his time.
So, the mug was her little way of cheering me on. She wanted me to keep the dream alive, and after she passed, my desire to make it happen bloomed with a vengeance. Dad was well off, comfortable with his new wife in L.A.—a beautiful blonde actress, not much older than me—but asking him for even the pettiest of financial help was out of the question. He didn’t call, didn’t write. When mom went, he went with her, and it was better that way. I didn’t want to depend on his money, anyway. I’d much rather live in this tiny, outdated apartment, where I could at least sleep at night knowing I earned every dime that paid its rent.
My lips still at the mug as I will the toaster to spit out my wheat bread. The bread finally jumps and I slap it onto a plate, lathering it with jam and butter. I settle into my green armchair, the one with the tear in the left arm, nibbling on the toast while opening the paper. My pulse begins to race as I thumb closer and closer to the Sorry Secrets column. It’s my favorite column in the Gig Harbor Weekly. Much more entertaining than reading on a hard, impersonal e-reader device. I detest e-books. Give me an old-fashioned newspaper or paperback any day. Give me something tangible, something that gives me paper cuts and leaves my fingers dirty.
I unfold the page that beholds the column and scan each header, ready to pounce on the first one that catches my eye. The column is a collection of short confessions, submitted by readers, all residents of Gig Harbor. Some are downright laughable, while others are so sobering, they’re chilling. Most are anonymous, but every now and then, someone decides to be brave and leave a name. The why behind the reason people choose to write these confessions and send them in to a paper for the whole town to read still eludes me, but I find a sort of cleansing in it. I hadn’t gone to college long, but when I did, one of my first classes was basic psychology. I remember learning how simply writing down your thoughts or listing your source of anxiety is somehow cathartic. I imagine the sense of relief these people experience, submitting their deepest, darkest secrets. How it strips them of fear.
Once you’ve cut yourself open and dumped your insides out on the table, what can the world really threaten you with?
My attention latches onto a confession from a daughter to her mother, something about not really wanting to go to medical school. I’m vaguely interested. Before I can jump to the next header to see if it’s any juicier, the phone rings.
“Yeah?” I answer, holding the cell limp in my hand. I’m still restlessly searching the column for my fix.
“Hey, baby. It’s almost ten. You coming over?”
I recognize Christian’s voice immediately. It’s husky and authoritative, which usually sends my libido into overdrive, but today is my day off and all I want to do is curl up with my column and dive into a bag of peanut butter cups after breakfast.
“Can’t,” I say with a sigh. “Busy today.”
“It’s Monday.”
“I know what day it is.”
“It’s your day off.”
“Very good. You want a gold star for that one?”
“You know I love that smart mouth of yours. If you were here right now, I’d teach it a lesson. Don’t deny me, Elise. You know I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Well, today you’re going to have to, because I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’ll come to you.”
“No,” I say quickly, sitting up. The paper falls to my lap and Christian has my full attention now. “You can’t come here.”
“You do realize you’re going to have to let me come to your place someday, right?”
I laugh dryly. “You do realize that day will never come, right?”
“What are you so afraid of? You have a husband I don’t know about?” His question is full of coy regalement, but I’m not amused. Christian will never see my apartment. None of the men I sleep with ever do. I go to them. This is all on my terms.
“Where’s Kylie today?”
“Visiting some friends in Seattle. She won’t be back until late tonight. Come on, baby, let me come over and show you a good time. I’ll bring lunch.”
I almost choke on my coffee. I’ve grown used to his endearments, but now he wants to eat together? “Lunch?”
“Yeah, you know, that meal after breakfast and before dinner?”
“Christian…”
“Elise, relax. I’m not asking you to have my children. Surely, you can eat a meal with me after I fuck you senseless, yes?”
My earlier plans for binging on peanut butter cups are cast aside by his forwardness. Well, that and the fact that this week’s column is turning out to be a letdown. Warmth floods my inner thighs and I fold my legs underneath me in the chair, turning to gaze out the window. Christian is pretty damn delicious. I’d probably count him as my favorite, although Brad from the diner is a close runner up. Brad and I have had an understanding for the past three years now, since I began working at Stella’s. He’s low maintenance through and through, and he knows my body well. The conversation is always minimal, and he’s considerate. Sweet. Kind of like Christian.
I laugh at that thought, watching a blackbird zip past my window.
Christian is far from sweet. In bed, he’s as dominant as they come, and he’s as charming, persuasive, and seductive as the devil himself. There are times I almost forget about his wife, Kylie—almost. He’s that good.
“Okay,” I decide, wanting to see his face. “I’ll come to you. Give me an hour.”
“That’s my girl.”
“See ya.” I hang up and pull myself from the chair, ditching the paper and my mug for my laciest red lingerie. Christian loves me in red, and the day could use a little color. I wash up, curl my hair, apply some make up, and then I’m out the door.
***
What was meant to be a quickie and a bite to eat turned into an all-day romp. Not that I’m complaining. Christian is 30, fit, and maddeningly handsome, with dirty blonde hair and shocking blue eyes. What really gets me is his tan. We’re not exactly golden here in Gig Harbor, Washington, but Christian has this perpetual bronze glow. Not the orange, unnatural kind, but the kind that kisses his skin just enough to give him that beach-bum look. Not only is he first-rate man candy, he’s phenomenal in the sack. I don’t doubt he keeps his wife a very happy woman. Too bad she has to share.
We’re launching into another round on his bed, and I go to kick off my black peep toe stilettos, but he grabs my ankle and slides my leg up higher around his waist. “Leave them on,” he orders gruffly. My head floats back down to the pillow and I keep my hands relaxed above my head, next to my ears, just where he likes them. I let him do his thing, keeping quiet and rocking my hips up to match him thrust for thrust.
My gaze settles on the corner of the ceiling. It’s barren and lonely, and I think there are traces of a cob web hanging there, dusting from wall to wall. I don’t whimper or moan for another few minutes, knowing he only likes to hear me on command. “I know,” he says sympathetically. He gives me a dazed smile of approval. My obedience makes him happy, and that only serves to make the way he’s fucking me all the more satisfying. “You can control it, I know you can.”
I bite down hard on my lip, trying to give him what he wants. I’m not sure why I comply with his demands. Maybe because compared to the others, Christian is the most tolerable. Something about him makes me want to compromise. Whereas I need Tim to punish me, I need Christian to indulge me. “Christian,” I pant, feeling every spring in my body coil tightly.
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“Soon.” He starts to pump harder, gathering my wrists above my head to pin them against the mattress. His waist is pushing, his force prodding me on as he nails me to the sheets. “Come on, baby, let me hear you.” His arctic eyes hone in on me, never straying from my face. Now that he’s given me permission, I let my moans pour from my lips. I can hear his cell ring from the nightstand, but I don’t dare let it burst the heady bubble I’m in. He feels too damn good and I’m way too close to be distracted.
“Shit,” he mumbles, closing his eyes to push out the intrusive ringing. My gaze falls down to his abdomen, firm and defined, rolling with each thrust. Each one is frantic now, and I know he’s close. I allow myself to whimper and my fingernails to dig into the palms of his hands. They’re still restraining me, holding my fists in a vise grip above my head. “Tell me you’re mine, Elise.”
The phone stops ringing and he keeps pushing, smashing me into the comforter, but I let my eyes drift shut and focus on absorbing all of the sensations instead of replying.
“Elise,” he barks, stabbing me with a sharp, measured jolt. “Say it.”
“Mmmm,” I breathe, answering him with a buck of my hips. My breasts are tender and swollen with arousal as they bounce against his sweaty chest.
He hammers me with another piercing strike and withdraws, releasing my wrists to flip me over onto my torso. I cry out from the sudden emptiness. In a flash, he gathers my wrists above my head again with one hand, while he lifts my ass with the other. He gives me no warning, slamming back inside of me. The warmth is deep and decadent, just as much as it is possessive. “You like that?” His words ooze into my ear, his head hovering over mine. “You want me to keep fucking you like that?”
“Yes,” I say, the word muffled as I answer into the side of the pillow.
“Then say it.” He lifts himself up to lean his weight on his hands and peer down at me.
“I’m yours,” I lie, pressing my ass harder against him to capture each thrust. I’m about to combust, and the sight of his muscles flexing over my shoulder sends a sinful shudder through me. “Don’t stop, Christian.”
“Say please.” He leans in and bites savagely on my neck, and the pain is numbingly exquisite. Christian has always liked it rough. It’s one reason we’re so compatible in bed.
“Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please, don’t stop.”
He growls in approval and lowers himself back down so his chest is pressing against my back, leaning on his forearms. One of his hands fists my hair, tugging my head farther to the side, and he pauses for a beat before powering away. He fucks me mercilessly, pounding me into the bed, and I come hard and gloriously, convulsing against the damp sheets. “So…goddamn…good,” he hisses through his teeth, pushing the syllables out in a broken staccato as he comes. His hips slow and our heavy pants fill the air, my body aching in the most delicious way.
Groaning in pure satisfaction, he pushes off of me and rolls me onto my back, sitting back on his heels. He pulls at my legs, propping my knees up, and grasps the tops of my thighs to part them. Before I can catch my breath, his hands slide underneath my knees and he yanks me forward, shoving his face between my legs. His mouth hits my clit, and he begins to suck, setting my body back on fire. “God, I love your pussy,” he mumbles against my flesh, rubbing his nose up and down the slit in between licks. The man has a tongue women dream about, and the way he looks up at me, with the most wicked, gorgeous smile, confirms my earlier musing: He is the devil personified.
The fire he ignited is raging now, like flames doused with gasoline. My entire body tingles from head to toe, the hypersensitive skin at the junction of my thighs blazing with need. My fingers find his hair and push his head down, pressing his mouth tighter against me. He groans as he licks and sucks, moving a hand to tap my calf, encouraging me to hook it over his shoulder. I obey and slide the other one around for good measure, linking them both behind his neck. He loves that, and I find pleasure in giving him what he loves.
My stiletto heels dig into his skin and he groans, moving from my clit to fuck me with his tongue. The bliss sends me into a shout and I start to rock my hips against his hot mouth. Each shot of pleasure he delivers travels from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes, reminding me exactly why I keep coming back to Christian for more. No one screws me like he does, and although I’m cautious today about his sudden interest in sharing a meal together, he’s kind to me, unlike Tim and some of the other assholes I hook up with. Tender, even. The way he leads me into a room, places his hand delicately on the small of my back, and the way he brushes my hair over my shoulder when we talk, leaves me feeling like his lover sometimes, instead of what I actually am.
In seconds, I’m coming again, and he’s delighting in every wave of ecstasy that washes over my body. I’m utterly spent, my skin buzzing with a high that only Christian knows how to give. My legs fall lazily from his shoulders and his head rises, his eyes burning as he looks down at me. He watches my chest rise and fall, lets his gaze drift over my curves until it settles on my legs again.
My eyes are shut as I breathe deeply, fluttering open when I feel his teeth graze my ankle. I find him holding my calf up, nipping the skin there, then trailing up to the inside of my knee. The little bites are the perfect dessert for the aftershocks. “You’re insatiable,” I finally speak, giggling when one of his bites triggers a small tickle.
“You’re mouthwatering.”
I sigh and smile, rolling my head to the left to find the alarm clock on the bedside table. I move to sit up on my elbows. It’s time to go. He’s done with me—I’ve been here all day—and the moment our feet leave the bed and hit the carpet, I know I’ll start thinking about how I can get away. I don’t ever want to hear a guy awkwardly ask me to leave. Which is why I always beat it to the punch.
“I better get going.” I wriggle out of his way and swing my legs over the side of the bed, searching the floor for my dress.
“Wait,” he says, moving with me.
I snatch up my dress and begin sliding it over my head, mumbling absentmindedly while searching for my scarf next. “Hhhmm?”
“Elise, wait.”
His tone causes me to still. I turn to him, and find a determined expression on his face. There’s a deep set to his jaw, his blue eyes churning with intensity. I’m afraid to ask. “What is it?”
“Can we talk before you go?”
I sneak a side glance at the alarm clock again, wondering if we really do have the time. That was probably Kylie calling earlier. She could pull up any minute. “Talk about what?”
Christian extends a hand, gently guiding me to sit back on the bed with him, and I feel it—the awkwardness. I let myself sit, but my feet are poised to stand.
“Elise, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Oh, God.” I jump up, pulling my hand from his. “Don’t tell me you have another mistress. Or three. Christian, whatever it is, I don’t care, okay? I don’t ask questions, you don’t ask questions. That’s never been an issue, so let’s just—”
“I’m leaving Kylie.”
“What?” I blink, not sure I heard him right.
“I’m leaving Kylie. She knows I want a divorce. It’s over.”
“Oh.”
The bedroom becomes quiet, his words hanging heavily in the air.
“I know how you feel about me—about this, about us—” he waves his hands in the air, “and you know I respect your position. But I thought you should know. I’m leaving her, and she’s relieved. She hasn’t been happy, either. I want you, Elise. I want you to be mine.”
Shock explodes into little sparks around me, and I suddenly feel the walls closing in. The air in this bedroom is too stuffy, the ceiling too low. He can’t have possibly said what I think he just said. “Christian,” my voice comes out throaty and dry, “I’m not sure I’m hearing you right.” He relaxes with a knowing sigh, leaning forward on the edge of the bed to res
t his elbows on his knees. “I’m not trying to put any pressure on you. I just want to be honest, want to put it all out there so you know what’s waiting for you, if you decide it’s something you’d be interested in. You know I’m a rich man, Elise. I would take care of you, take care of everything. I’d pay for you to go back to college. Anything you want, it’s yours.” Suddenly, he rises from the bed, carefully approaching me like he knows I’m about to dart at any moment.
I am.
“I want every inch of you, inside and out. And I don’t give a damn who thinks what about it. This isn’t enough for me anymore.”
My mouth bypasses my brain’s filter and lets out a laugh, one that I know will hurt Christian if I don’t quickly explain where it’s coming from. “I’m sorry,” I say, half covering my mouth, “I’m not laughing at your offer, I’m laughing at…” I search for the words, turning in a circle to look out the bedroom window. What am I laughing at?
Could it be the fact that aside from being a cheater, this guy is actually a dream? Young, rich, handsome, charming, and amazing in bed to boot? Or could it be the fact that I’m possibly the reason he’s leaving his wife? He hasn’t mentioned that detail yet, or if I even have anything to do with his decision, but judging by the reality that he sees me often and his wife is not a stupid woman—she’s a well-read, educated med student—it’s a very real possibility. My mind tumbles through these options, then pauses as it reaches a realization: I’d classified him as someone like me.
Someone who uses his good looks and charm to deceive and take what he wants, then casts aside the object of his interest the second he’s accomplished his goal. Granted, Christian had never been a one-night stand or cold lover from a sordid affair, but I’m certain that with each bedroom tryst, he is willfully using me, just as I’ve been using him. He is unfaithful to his wife with me and who-knows-how-many other women, and he never sees me as anything other than a piece of ass he can call up anytime he is feeling lonely. Each time he touches me, he makes me feel like I am the only one in the universe. The only one he has eyes for. He knows that isn’t true, and I know that isn’t true, but he has led me to believe it anyway, because he is a wolf by nature. He is wicked like me. Or at least he was, until he started bringing his feelings into the equation.
The Replacement Page 3