P.S. I Dare You (PS Series Book 3)

by Winter Renshaw

  “You’re not good at this.”

  “What? Not good at what?”

  “Confrontation.” I glance over her shoulder. Lillie Treadwell and that guy are going at it hardcore, making out in their little booth. Guess we all need to unwind a little after work. “You’re uptight, Keane. But you’re also soft. And you’re unsure of yourself. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t give a shit what I think about you. But you want me to like you. You want me to respect you. You want my approval.” She begins to speak, but I cut her off. “And it’s okay. We’re all like that to a degree. I’m just saying, you’d be better served doing what I do and not giving a fuck about anything.”

  “You’re something else, Calder.”

  I study her face, trying to determine if she’s saying that in a good way or …

  “All I did was ask why you were so nice to me today … and then you told me I wear too much makeup and now you’re telling me I’m insecure.”

  “You’re paraphrasing and oversimplifying, but close enough.”

  “I’m not insecure. I’m a perfectionist, I’m analytical. There’s a difference. A huge difference.”

  “All right.”

  “And I couldn’t care less what you think about me,” she says. “I just want to get to a place of mutual respect and understanding so these next twenty-nine days are tolerable for the both of us.”

  Twenty-nine days.

  Of course she’s counting.

  “The only way to do that is to communicate. Thoroughly. Openly. Honestly,” she continues.

  The man steps out of the restroom. Finally. And I head in. Only when I get inside, I realize I’m not alone. She’s still talking, still pointing her pink-painted fingernail in my direction, her freckled face twisted as she lets me have it.

  My cock twists.

  For some completely insane and inexplicable reason, this is making me hard, and I’m getting harder by the second. And miraculously, I no longer feel the need to go.

  I let her drone on, something about the importance of being a perfectionist and how it allows her to be the best at what she does and how she notices things and picks up on nuances most people can’t see. She loses me for a second, but only because I can’t stop staring at the quick rise and fall of her breasts through that perfectly pressed dress of hers, but when she starts ranting about how she never makes mistakes, that’s when I silence her with a kiss.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  A moan vibrates against my lips, a half-assed protest maybe, but her body falls limp against mine … a silent surrender? I lift my hand to her face, cupping her cheek and resting my thumb just beneath her jaw, and the saucy little thing kisses me back.

  And she keeps kissing me back.

  My cock strains against my boxer briefs, and I circle my hands around her waist. A zing of peppermint travels from her tongue to mine, and I twist her around before lifting her onto the counter next to the sink.

  “Calder,” she manages to mutter between kisses. For a second, I fully expect her to object, but then her hands wrap around my shoulder and her nails dig into my flesh and she pulls me closer. “What are … this is … we shouldn’t …”

  I pull my mouth from hers. “If you want me to stop, tell me now. Tell me right now, Keane.”

  Our eyes lock, hers searching mine, but she says nothing, only swallows and leaves her hands exactly where they are.

  “That’s what I thought.” I tug the hem of her skirt up her thighs before my fingertips trail across goose-pimpled flesh until they reach the lace fabric of her panties.

  She sucks a breath between her teeth the moment my fingers slip beneath the cloth and slide between her folds, plunging deep inside her. Her body stiffens before melting against me, and then her knees lock—her mind and body clearly not on the same page here.

  “Either you want this or you don’t,” I whisper. “Make up your mind now, Keane. I already have.”

  I crush her mouth with a kiss, my fingers still sticky with her arousal, and she accepts my tongue with hers.

  “Hurry it up in there! I gotta piss!” A man yells as he pounds on the door.

  Keane’s body jolts with a quick shock and then her lips curve against mine, the two of us sharing a smirk, and then she reaches for my belt.

  “I hate that I want this,” she says.

  “I know.”

  “This can’t happen again.” She lets my belt buckle go before working my zipper.

  “I know.” I reach into my wallet, grabbing a condom, and I rip the packet between my teeth, holding her wanton gaze prisoner. I won’t tell her this—now or ever—but screwing a girl who hates my fucking guts feels like it could be at the top of a sexual bucket list I never knew I had.

  The man outside knocks again.

  “Hurry,” she says, widening her legs and hooking her hands at my hips. “He’s going to bust down that door if we make him wait much longer.”

  Sheathing my cock, I smirk. “He’s going to have to find an alley to piss in. I’m taking my time. Going to enjoy the hell out of this.”

  Aerin rolls her eyes. “And that’s exactly the kind of thing I’d expect you to say.”

  I steal a kiss before gripping my cock and teasing it along her slit. She moans, her hands digging into my shoulders as she waits for me to slip the length of it inside of her, slow inch by slow inch.

  “Does it ever get tiring? Making the world revolve around you?” she asks.

  I find my rhythm a moment later and slide my hand up her back as she steadies herself on the counter. Running my fingers up her spine, I stop at the nape of her neck to gather a fistful of her silky dark hair. Giving it a gentle tug until her head leans back against the mirror, I watch as she bites her full bottom lip, and I swear it makes me even harder.

  “Never,” I say. “Because I don’t. And it doesn’t.”

  “So arrogant.” She shuts me up this time, her mouth warm and her tongue hot, and her soft hands cupping the sides of my neck.

  The man outside the door pounds once more. Harder.

  “You need to finish.” The sensation of her breath against my ear helps the situation along, though I’d bask in this all night if I could. So tight, so wet, so laced with sexual animosity. If only we could take this back to my place.

  But she’s right.

  “What about you?” I ask, gripping the outside of her thighs as I piston into her, growing closer.

  “Don’t worry about me … just … finish.” She eyes the door.

  I’ve never, in my entire adult life, heard those words uttered from the lips of a beautiful woman before.

  “Are you worried he’s going to bust in here and see us?” I laugh. She doesn’t. Guess I hit the nail on the head. “I thought you didn’t care what people thought?”

  “I don’t.” Her hips buck against mine, like she’s trying to speed things along. “I just don’t want to be on display like … this.”

  “And I do?” If she keeps talking, it’s only going to delay things—which is fine with me. I could stay in this all night. But she’s the one so concerned about the guy on the other side of the door.

  “You know what I mean,” she says, face winced and lips bitten. Before she gets a chance to take another verbal swing at me, her body seizes and her mouth gapes and her eyes roll to the back of her head. For a moment, I think she’s convulsing, but nope.

  This is Aerin Keane having an orgasm.

  And it wasn’t that it wasn’t hot as fuck to witness … it’s just that it came out of nowhere. She was mid-correcting me and then bam.

  Her eyes widen. I think it’s safe to say she’s as shocked as I am, and that’s really saying something.

  The swell below tells me I’m next, and a few quick thrusts later and I’m finished.

  She doesn’t make eye contact when I’m done, only slides off the counter, cleans herself up with as much finesse as a lady who’s just been fucked in a bar bathroom can muster, slips into her panties, and waits by the
door, her back to me.

  “Keane,” I say, wanting to make sure she’s okay.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just—I should go.”

  I wash my hands, zip my pants and grab the door for us, only before I have a chance to yank it open, she places her hand on mine.

  “This can’t happen again,” she says, as if I needed a reminder.

  There are dozens of reasons why it shouldn’t, why it won’t, and why it can’t. Most of which? I’m her boss. But something tells me that’s the least of her worries.

  “I know,” I say. “And it won’t.”

  “HER NAME IS BRUNHILDA?” I ask my brother as he straightens his tie before his dresser mirror Friday night. It’s so weird seeing him in a tie. My whole life it’s either been jeans and a t-shirt or scrubs.

  There’s almost this time warp, déjà vu thing going on. This is just like old times, when I was a gap-toothed kid watching my big brother get ready to paint the town on a Friday night with his high school friends or his girl of the week or whoever.

  “Yes, but she goes by Hillie. And you don’t understand,” he says, meeting my gaze in the reflection. “She’s a radiologist. Whip smart. Hot as hell. And Aerin … that accent.”

  I roll my eyes. “Do you realize how superficial you sound right now? Like, is she a nice person? Would she rescue a litter of kittens if she had to? Does she read books? For fun?”

  “Not sure, Aer. I’ll ask her tonight and get back to you on that.” He moves for his cologne next. “Anyway, what do you have going on tonight? Any hot dates?”

  I drag my legs against my chest, repositioning myself at the foot of his bed. “I’m only here four more weeks.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. Don’t you date back home?”

  “I’m too busy to have fun.”

  “Do you realize how lame you sound right now?” He gives me a wink.

  “Touché.”

  “Seriously though,” he says, “Do I need to dare you to have fun in order to get you to have fun?”

  “Stop.” I throw a pillow at him and miss. He hasn’t dared me to do anything since I was a kid, terrified of the dark, spiders, and generally anything scary and unfamiliar. I’ve always been a bit of a fraidy-cat, but a fraidy-cat who loves a challenge. It’s my Achilles heel and Rush knows it.

  My brother leaves his room, and I follow him down the hall where he grabs a pair of shoes off a rack by the front door.

  “This look all right?” he asks, pointing.

  I give him a once over and nod. My brother has never had a problem attracting the attention of the finer sex. He could probably wear a paper sack and girls would still throw their panties at him. It’s only gotten worse since he added that “MD” after his name.

  “Why don’t you download one of those apps or something? Swiper or whatever? Find someone to Netflix-and-chill with.”

  “Tinder?” I pretend to stick my finger down my throat. “And no one says Netflix-and-chill anymore. God, you sound so old. Get out of here. You’re going to be late for Broomhilda.”

  “Brunhilda,” he corrects me, sliding his wallet and keys into his pockets. “Hillie.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I walk him a few short steps to the door and see him out. After locking the door behind him, I head back to my room to finally peel out of these work clothes and treat myself to some Chinese takeout and season three of Gilmore Girls—anything to take my mind off the fact that I had sex with my boss in a bar bathroom last night.

  I went to the office in full cringe-ready mode this morning, prepared for that awkward first-time-after-screwing encounter. With a head held high and red power lipstick carefully painting my mouth, I waited patiently at my desk all morning for Calder to check in or stop by or drop some work off.

  Nothing.

  Not even an email … all day.

  I caught up on summarizing the reports he’d sent me yesterday, emailed them off to him, and asked Marta if she needed help with anything.

  Three times I saw Calder pass by my office.

  Three times he never so much as glanced in my direction.

  Freaking pig.

  But I can’t even be mad at him.

  I let him kiss me. I wanted it. I offered myself to him on a sterling silver platter with a flashing neon “all you can eat” sign, and he did exactly what men like him do.

  And in the end … I had the strongest, longest, most intense orgasm I’ve had in my entire adult life.

  Honestly, I probably could’ve come again if that man outside hadn’t kept pounding on the door.

  Who knew hate sex was my hot button?

  Tugging a jersey-soft pajama top over my head and slipping into the matching bottoms, I grab a bottle of Essie’s Babes in the Booth polish from my bathroom, a copy of this month’s Elle, and my phone before heading back to my brother’s living room.

  Five minutes later, I’ve cued an episode of Gilmore Girls and I’ve placed an online order for cashew chicken and egg drop soup from a place on the corner my brother raves about every chance he gets.

  I hit play on the remote and unscrew the cap on my polish, resting one foot on the edge of my brother’s reclaimed wood coffee table.

  My phone buzzes with a text message from the food delivery service, notifying me that my food will arrive in approximately twenty-one minutes.

  Dragging the excess polish off the brush, I begin to paint my left big toe when my phone vibrates again.

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING SATURDAY?

  I don’t recognize the number, but it’s a 212 area code and seeing how I’m in New York, I should probably investigate.

  WHO IS THIS? I type back.

  A blue bubble with three dots fills the screen.

  IT’S CALDER. WHAT ARE YOU DOING TOMORROW?

  I sit up, nearly choking on my spit as I yank my foot off the table. Unable to take my eyes off that audacious message filling my screen, I attempt to recap my polish using only my peripheral vision … only in my distracted state I knock the entire bottle on its side, pink polish pooling on the unsealed wood.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Shooting up, I sprint to the kitchen, grab a handful of paper towels and the first household cleaner I can find under the sink (Windex), and dab at the gaudy stain seeping into the furniture.

  “No, no, nooooo.” I exhale, refusing to give up. Grabbing my phone, I pull up Google, only before I have a chance to find out whether acetone is safe on unfinished surfaces, my screen lights with another message from Calder.

  ???

  Three question marks? Seriously? I fire off a response: KIND OF IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING RIGHT NOW. SORRY.

  He responds a minute later, after I’ve finished my query: ARE YOU AVAILABLE TOMORROW? YES OR NO?

  God, he’s thirsty. If he thinks I’m going to be his booty call, he needs to think again.

  I TOLD YOU, IT WAS A ONE-TIME THING, I write, placing my phone aside and running to the bathroom to grab my travel-sized nail polish remover and some cotton balls. When I return, I already have a message waiting.

  A LITTLE PRESUMPTIVE ON YOUR PART, KEANE, he writes. Followed by: I WAS GOING TO HEAD INTO THE OFFICE FOR A FEW HOURS IN THE MORNING. YOUR SERVICES WOULD BE APPRECIATED.

  Clapping my hand over my forehead, I slump down to my knees. I’ve almost managed to get the stain out, and according to the Google search I performed a few minutes ago, the acetone should evaporate and the spot should be good as new.

  But there’s no saving this.

  Here I thought he was being an ass, but instead that ass was me.

  SEE YOU AT EIGHT? he writes.

  I text him back with a “yes.”

  I’M WORKING FROM MY father’s office this morning, but only for logistical reasons. All his files are here, and I don’t feel like schlepping back and forth all morning.

  “You’re late, Keane,” I say when she finds me. I swear she almost drops the coffees in her hands as she strides into the office Saturday morning. “I’m me
ssing with you.”

  She’s actually early, as people like her typically tend to be. But I wanted a reaction out of her.

  Sitting two cups in front of me, one hot and one cold, she says, “I wasn’t sure what you drink, so I got one of—”

  “I don’t drink coffee.” I reach for my bottled water. It’s bad enough that I’m working in some skyrise corner office, forced to dress up during the week. I’m not going to be that executive subsisting off eight cups a coffee, Cuban cigars, and three martini lunches. “But thank you.”

  “I’m sorry I misunderstood your text message last night.” She speaks so fast, it’s almost as if the issue had been bothering her all this time.

  It was an honest mistake. A hilarious one too. And likely extremely humiliating for a self-aware perfectionist like her.

  “Didn’t think twice about it,” I lie. I thought about it all night. And I thought about her all day yesterday, actually. I was going to talk to her Friday, make sure she was okay, but my father commandeered my schedule to the point that I barely had time to take a piss. I slide a stack of reports across the desk, pushing them toward her. “Here’s a new batch for you to summarize. Do as many as you can today. I’ve put the important ones on top.”

  Turning my attention toward the computer monitor, I watch her linger and squirm, her hands fidgeting as she wrestles the tall stack of bound and stapled reports.

  Monday is the monthly board meeting, where the change in guard will officially be announced. Today I wanted to do a little research on the members. I had Marta pull their files late yesterday afternoon, but I hadn’t had a chance to go through them all.

  This place is a fucking zoo most of the time. Constant interruptions. Phones ringing. Emails pinging. And yet everyone acts like they’re the luckiest sons of bitches in the world to be employed at WellesTech.

  Then again, it could all be a front. They know I’m about to become their boss. It’s in their best interest to look happy and productive.

  Most people—and by most, I mean 99.999% of them—are fake as fuck.

  Except Aerin.

  And the funny thing is, I don’t even think she realizes it.

  “I’ll probably be working in here most of the day,” I say, motioning for her to leave. Those reports won’t summarize themselves. “So if you need me …”